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LESSONS 

IN 

t C U T I O N"; 

OR, 

SELECTION OF PIECES 

IN 
FOR 

THE IMPROVEMENT OF YOUTH 

IN 

READING AND SPEAKING. 



*k 



BY WILLIAM SCOTT. 

■——■I ■ ■ M 

TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, 

ELEMENTS OF GESTURE ; ' 

ILLUSTRATED 

jar four plates, and rules tot* v^«t»ccctiv-g with rxtop-Rtfci?* 

THE VARIOUS PASSIONS OF THE Misrn. 
ALSO, AN 

APPENDIX, 

CONTAINING LESSONS ON A NEW PLANj 

TO WHICH IS ADDED, 

? ABRIDGMENT OF WALKER'S RULES FOR THE PRONUNCIATION 

OF GREEK AND LATIN PROPER NAMES, WITH A LIST 

OF CLASSICAL NAMES WHICH OCCUR 

IN THE WORK, 

-Stereotyped by t. h. camS^cotj ni 

m> ■■ ■ ■ \,;>j ^ -° 



PLYMOUTH, Mass, 
•PUBLISHED BY EZRA COLLIER 






DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, to wit : 

\ District Clerk's offict 

Be it remembered, That on the eighteenth day of March, A. L 
1824, in the forty-seventh year of the independence of the United 
8tates of America, Ezra Collier, of the said District, has deposited 
in this office the title of a book, the right whereof he claims as proprie- 
tor, in the words following, to icit : — V Lessons in Elocution ; or, a 
Selection of Pieces in Prose and Verse, for the improvement of 
Youth in Reading and Speaking. By William Scott. To which 
are prefixed, Elements of Gesture ; illustrated by four Plates, and 
jules for expressing with propriety the various passions of the mind. 
Also, an Appendix, containing lessons on a new plan. To which is 
added, an abridgment of Walker's Rules for the pronunciation of 
Crreek and Latin proper names, with a list of classical names which 
occur in the work." In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the 
United States, entitled, " An Act for the finp.niirafiftmp.nt of learning, 

s&y securing the copies of mans, pharts, and books, to the authors and 
proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned :" ai 
also to an Aci, entitled, " An Act supplementary tp an Act, entitle 
An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies 
maps, charts, and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copi 
during the times therein mentioned ; and extending the benei 
thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching historic 
and other prints." 

wo. w. davis, {«#££££ 



2-7i 



CONTENTS. 



-*►©$©«*- 



INTRODUCTORY LESSONS. 

1. On the speaking of speeches at schools, Walker, 

2. On the acting of plays at schools, - - ibid. 

3. Rules for expressing with propriety, the principal 

passions and humours, which occur in reading 

or public speaking, _ Burgh, 

4. Rules respecting elocution, - - - Walker, 

PART I.— LESSONS IN READING. 



Tag?, 

9 

19 



26 

42 



/. 
3. 
). 
.). 
1. 

a. 
% 

4. 

5. 
16. 
17. 
18. 
19. 
20. 
Si. 
22. 
23. 



SECTION L 

-5. Select sentences, 
The fox and the goat, 
Tx.e fox and the stork, 
The court of death, - 

The partial judge, 

The sick lion, the fox, and the wolf, 
Dishonesty punished, 

The picture, * 

The two bees, - 

Beauty and deformity. 

Remarkable instance of friendship, 

Dionysius and Damocles, 

Character of Catiline, 

Avarice and luxury, - 

Hercules' choice, - 

Will Honeycomb's Spectator, 

On Good breeding, - 

Address to a young student, 

Advantages of, and motives to, cheerfulness, Spectator, 



Art of Thinking, 
Dodsleifs Fables, 

ibid. 

ibid. 

ibid. 

ibid. 
Kane's Hints, 

ibid. 
Dodsley's Fables, 
PercivaVs Tales, 

Jlrt of Speaking, 
ibid. 

Sallust, 

Spectator, 

Tattler, 

Spectator, 
Chesterfield, 
Knox, 



SECTION II. 



1. The bad reader, .... 

2. Respect due to old age, 

3. Piety to God recommended to the young, 

4. Modesty and docility, 

5. Sincerity, ------ 

6. Benevolence and humanity, 

7. Industry and application, 

8. Proper employment of time, 

9. The true patriot, - 
10. On contentment, - 

1-1. Needle-work recommended to the ladies, 

^ 12. On pride, 

13. Journal of the life of Alexander Severus, 



PercivaVs Tales, 

Spectator, 

Blair, 

ibid. 

ibid. 

ibid. 

ibid. 

ibid. 

Art of Thinking, 

Spectator-, 

ibid. 

Guardian, 

Gibbon, 



52 
5r> 
57 
53 
ib. 
59 
ib, 
CO 
ib. 
61 
€2 
ib. 
63 
64 
65 
67 
70 
73 
75 



79 
ib. 
80 
81 
ib. 
82 
83 
84 
85 
85 
83 
90 
92 



CONTENTS. 



14. Character of Julius Cessar, 

15. On mispent time, 

16. Character of Francis I. a 

17. The supper and grace, 

18. Rustic felicity, 

19. House of mourning, 





Page 


Middleton, 


92 


Guardian, 


i 


Robertson, 


Sterne, 


-100 


ibid. 


102 


ibid. 


ib. 



| 1. The honour and advantage of a constant 

adherence to truth, - 
; 2. Impertinence in discourse, -.-..." 
[ 3. Character of Addison as a writer, 
! 4. Pleasure and pain, - 

j 5. Sir Roger de Coverly's family, 

6. The folly of inconsistent expectations, 
[ 7. Description of the vale of Keswick, in 

Cumberland, - 

j 8. Pity, an Allegory, - 

0. Advantages of commerce, 
20. On public speaking, 

11. Advantages of history, 

12. On the immortality of the soul, 

13. The combat of the Horatii and the 

Curiatii, 

14. On the power of custom, 

15. On pedantry, - - - " - 
16 The journey of a day — a picture of 

human life, . - 



SECTION IV. 

Description of the amphitheatre of Titus, 

Reflections in Westminster Abbey, - 

The character of Mary queen of Scots, 

The character of queen Elisabeth, - 

Charles V's resignation of his dominions. 

Importance of virtue, - 

Address to art, - 

Flattery, - 

The absent man, 

The Monk, - - - m - 

On the head-dress of the ladies, - 

On the present and future state, 

Uncle Toby's benevolence, - ' - 

Story cf the siege of Calais, 



1. 
m 

3.' 
;4. 

%. 
"6. 

7. 
8. 

10. 

12' 

14 



PercivaVs Tales, 

Theophrastus, 

Johnson, 

Spectator, 

ibid. 

/ Mikm, 

Brown, 

Aithcn, 

Spectator, 

ibid. 

. Hume, 

Spectator, 

Liny, 
Spectator, 

.Mi.rmv, 

Rambler, • 



Gibbon, 

Spectator, 

Robertson, 

Hume, 
Robertson, 
Price, 
Harris, 
Theophrastus, 
Spectator, 
Sterne, 
Spectator^ 
ibid. 
Sterne, 
Fool of quality, 



SECTION V. 



1. On grace in writing, * • 

2. On the structure of animals, 

3. On natural and fantastical pleasures, 

4. The* folly and* mad&ess of ambition illustrated, 

5. Battle of Pharsalia and the death of Pompey, 
(3. Character of king Alfred, - - - _ 



Fitzsborn-e's Letters, 
Spectator, 
Guardian, 

World, 
Goldsmith, 

Hume, 



104 
ib. 
105 
106 
108 
110 

112 
115 
116 
118 

120 
122 

124 

126 

128 

130 



133 

134 

137 

133 

140 

143 

144 

146 

147 

148- 

150 

153 

155 

156 



160 
161 
164 
163 
171 
17* 



CONTENTS, 



7. Awkwardness in company, 

8. Virtue man's highest interest, 

9. On the pleasure arising from objects of sight, 
lft. Liberty and slavery, - 

11. The cant of criticis, ^, - - - ' - 

12. Parallel between Pope and Dryden, 

13. The story of Le Fever, 





Pagei 


Chesterfield. 
Harris , 


, 177 

ib. 


Spectator, 
Sterne, 


179 
131 


ibid. 


182 


Johnson, 


183 


Sterne, 


184 



SECTION VI. 

1. The shepherd and the philosopher, - - Gay, 192 

2. Ode to Leaven water, - Smollet, 193 

3. Ode from the 19th Psalm, - - - Spectator, 194 

4. Rural charms, ----- Goldsmith, ib. 

5. The painter who pleased nobody and every body, Gay, 195 

6. Diversity in the human character, - Pope, 196 

7. The toilet, -------. ibid. 198 

8. The hermit, - " - - - - Parnell, ib. 
! 9. On the death of Mrs. Mason, - - - Mason, 203 

10. Extract from the temple of fame, - - - Pope, ib. 

11. A panegyric on Great Britain, - - - Thomson, 205 

12. Hymn to the Deity, on the seasons of the year, ibid. 20* 



SECTION VII. 

1. The chameleon, - - - - - r 

2 On the order of nature, 

3. Description of a country alehouse, - 

4. Character of a country schoolmaster, - 

5. Story of Palemon and Lavinia, 

6. Celadon and Amelia, - 

7. Description of Mab, queen of the Faries, 
! 8. On the existence of a Deity, - 

9. Evening in Paradise described, - 

10. Elegy written in a country churchyard, - 

11. Scipio restoring the captive lady to her lover 

12. Humorous complaint to Dr. Arbuthnot of the 

impertinence of scribblers, 

13. Hymn to adversity, - 

14. The passions — An ode, - 



Merrick, 210 

Pope, 211 

Goldsmith, 212 

ibfd. ib. 

Thomson, 213 

ibid. 216 

Shakespeare, 217 

Young, ib. 

Milton, 218 

Gray, 220 

Thomson, 222 

Pope, . 224 

Gray, 225 

- Collins, 22<5 



SECTION VIII. 

1. Lamentation for the loss of sight, 

2. L'Allegro, or the merry man, 

3. On the pursuits of mankind, 

4. Adam and Eve's morning hymn, - 

5. Parting of Hector and Andromache, 

6. Facetious history of John Gilpin, - 

7. The creation of the world, 

8. Overthrow of the rebel angels, 

9. Alexander's feast, or the power of music, 

A2 



Milton, 


22S 


ibid. 


229 


Pope, 


231. 


Milton, 


233 


Homer, 


234 


Cowper, 


237 


- Milton, 


242 


ibid. 


243 


- Dryden } 


%4 



6 CONTENTS. 

PART U.—LESSOJVS IN SPEAKLVG. 
SECTION I. 

mawmtt of iJje IMlpil 

Page 

; 1. On truth and integrity . - . TiUotson,247 

! £ On aoing as we would be done unto, - Atterbury, 249 

j 3. On benevolence and charity, - . . steel" 251 

! 4. On happiness, - . . . . „ Stern > 253 

I 5. On the death of Christ, . . . . BMr ^ 256 

SECTION II. 

Wamtim of tfie Sbm&u 

_ ; V Speech of the Earl of Chesterfield, - 259 

„, — . ^ m £, or j Mansfield, - - - . » 4 264 

SECTION III. 

Motmmm oi t^e Mm:. 

1. Pleadings of Cicero against Verres, - 268 

2. Cicero for Milo, ---...» 271 

SECTION IV. 

cSiJmits on Vuvimu Subjects- 

{ 1* HomuJus to the people of Rome, after building 

the city, - - - - - - - Hooke, 276 

£. Hannibal to Scipio Africanus, .... ihid. 277 

3. Scipio's reply, ibid. 278 

J 4. Calisthenes' reproof of Cieon's flattery to 

Alexander, ----- Q. Curtis. 279 

| 5. Caius Marius to the Romans, - Hooke, 280 

6. Publius Scipio to the Roman army, - - ibid, 282 

7. Hannibal to the Carthagenian army, - - ibid. 285 

8. Adherbal to the Roman senators, - - Sallust, 287 

9. Canuleius to the Roman consuls, - - Hooke, 290 
10-. Junius Brutus over the dead body of Lucretia, ibid. 292 
li. Demosthenes to the Athenians, - - Lansdozcn, 293 

12. Jupiter to the inferior deities, - ' - - Homer, 298 

13. ^Eneas to queen Dido, - Virgil, 299 
M\ Moloch to the infernal powers, - - - Milton, 300 
15. Speech of Belial^ advising peace, - ». • - ibid, 302. 

SECTION V. 

Bramattc pieces, 

I. DIALOGUES. 

X. Bekour and StockwelJ, - - - West Indian, 303 

J& Lady Townly arid lady Grace, - Provoked Husband, 305 

3 Priuli and Jailier, - - - Venice Preserved, 309 



CONTENTS, » 

Page, 

Boniface and Aim well, - - Beaux Stratagem, 311 

5. Lovegold and Lappet, - Miser, 313 

(3. Cardinal Wolsey and Cromwell, - Henry VIII. 317 

7. Sir Charles and Lady Racket, Three Weeks after Marriage, 320 

8. Brutus and Cassius, - Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, 3*23 

II. SPEECHES AND SOLILOQUIES, 

1. Hamlet's advice to the players, - Tragedy of Hamlet, 326 

2. Douglas' account of himself, - Tragedy rf Douglas, 327 

3. „ — the hermit, - ibid. 323 

4. Semprenius' speech for war, - Tragedy of Cato, ib, 

5. Lucius' speech for peace, - - - ibid. 329 
€ Hotspur's account of the fop, - - 1 Henry the IV. ib. 

\7. — soliloquy on the contents of a letter, ibid. 330 

S. Othello's apology for his marriage, Tragedy of Othello, 331 

9. Henry IV's soliloquy en sleep, - 2 Henry the IV. 332 

10. Bobadirs method of defeating an 

arm}', - - - * : '->. Every man in his humour, ib. 

11. Soliloquy of Hamlet's uncle on 

the murder of his brother, - Tragedy of Hamlet, 333 

12. Soliloquy of Hamlet on death, - ibid. 334 

13. FalstauT's encomiums on sack, - 2 flcnry the IV, 335 

14. Prologue to the tragedy cf Cato, - - Tope, ib. 

15. Cato's soliloquy on the immortality 

pf t& soul, - Tragedy of Cato, 33G 

.16. Lady Randolph's soliloquy, - Tragedy of Douglas, 337 
17. Speech of Henrv V at the siege 

of Harneur, - Shakespeare's Henry V. ib, 

1& ■ — before the battle of Aghacourt, ibid. 338 

■19. Sohloquy of Dick the apprentice, Farce of the Apprentice, 339 

20. Caseins instigating Brutus to join the 

conspiracy against Caesar, Tr ag edy of Julius ^Ccesar, 340 

21. Brutus' harangue on the death of Caesar, - ibid. 241 
2S. Antony's oration over Ceesar's body, - - ibid. 342 

23. Falstafr 's soliloquy on honour, - - Henry IV. 344 

24. Part of Richard Ill's soliloquy the night preceding 

the battle of Bosworth, - Tragedy of Richard III. ib. 

25. The world compared to a stage. - " As you like it, ib. 

APPENDIX — Containing concise lessons on a new plan, 346 

Puules for pronouncing Greek and Latin proper names, Walker, 361 

Pronunciation of Greek and Latin names, -.- ibid. 365 



TO THE STEREOTYPE EDITION. 

THOUGH the merit of the Lessons, a new edition of 
which is now presented to the public, is well appre» 
elated, yet complaints have been made, and very justly 
that most of the editions, in common- _ use, are not only 
badly executed, but extremely incorrect. The present 
edition, it is believed, will be found free from both these 
objections. Its typographical execution addresses itself 
to the eye, and cannot fail, it is thought, to make such 
an impression, as will supersede the necessity of verbal 
commendation. And it is presumed, that on examination, 
its correctness will be found to be equal to its mechanical 
execution, the greatest care having been given to produce 
an accurate, as well as a handsome edition of the work. 

There is added, to the present edition, an abridgment 
of Mr. Walker's rules for the pronunciation of the Greek 
and Latin proper names, with a list of such classical name* 
as are to be met with in this and other elementary works, i 

Plymouth, January 3d. 1825. 



ELEMENTS OF GESTURE. 



SECTION I 

On the Speaking of Speeches at Schools, 

ELOCUTION has, for seme years past, been an ob- 
ject of attention in the most respectable schools in this 
country. A laudable ambition of instructing youth, m the 
pronunciation and delivery of their native language, has 
made English speeches a very conspicuous part of those 
exhibitions of oratory, which do our seminaries of learning 
so much credit. 

This attention to English pronunciation, has induced se- 
veral ingenious men to compile exercises in elocution, for 
the use of schools, which have answered very useful pur- 
poses : But none so- far as I have seen, have attempted to 
give us a regular system of gesture, suited to the wants and 
capacities of School-boys. Mr. Burgh, in his art of Speak- 
ing, has given us a system of the passions ; and has shown 
us how they appear in the countenance, and orierate on the 
body; but this system, however useful to people of riper 
years, is too delicate and complicated to be taught in schools. 
Indeed the exact adaptation, of the action to the word, and 
the word to the action, as Shakespeare calls it, is the most 
difficult part of delivery, and therefore, can never be taught 
perfectly to children ; to say nothing of distracting their at- 
tention with two very difficult things at the same time. But 
ih'dt boys should stand motionless, while they are pronounc- 
ing the most impassionate language, is extremely absurd 
and unnatural ; and that they should sprawl into an awkward, 
ungain, and desultory action, is still more offensive and dis- 
gusting. What then remains, but that such a general style 
of action be adopted, as shall be easily conceived and easily 
executed ; which, though not expressive of any particular 
passion, shall not be inconsistent with the expression of any 
passion ; which shall always keep the body in a graceful 
position, and shall so vary its motions, at proper intervals, 
as to see the subject operating on the speaker, and not the 



10 ELEMENTS 

speaker on the subject. This, it will be Confessed, is a 
great desideratum; and an attempt to this, is the principal 
object of the present publication. 

The difficulty of describing action by words, will be a£ 
lowed by every one ; and if we were never to give any in- 
structions, but such as should completely answer our wish- 
es, this difficulty would be a good reason for not attempting 
to give any description of it. But there are many degrees 
between conveying a precise idea of a thing, and no idea at 
all. Besides, in this part of delivery, instruction may be con- 
veyed by the eye ; and this organ is a much more rapid 
vehicle of knowledge than the ear. This vehicle is address- 
ed on the present occasion ; and plates, representing the 
attitudes which are described, are annexed to the several 
descriptions, which it is not doubted will greatly facilitate 
the reader's conception. 

Plate I. represents the attitude in which a boy should 
always place himself, when he begins to speak. He should 
rest the whole weight of his body on the right leg ; the other 
just -touching the ground, at the distance at which it would 
naturally fall, if lifted up to show that the body does not 
bear upon it. The knees should be straight, and braced, 
and the body, though perfectly straight, not perpendicular, 
but inclining as far to the right as^ a firm position on the 
right leg will permit. The right arm must then be held 
out, with the-<palm open, the fingers straight and close, the 
thumb almost as distant from them as it will go ; and the 
flat of the hand neither horizontal nor vertical, but exactly 
between both. The position of the arm, perhaps, will be 
best described, by supposing an oblong hollow square form- 
ed by the measure of four arms, as in Plate I. where the 
arm, in its true position, forms the diagonal of such an ima- 
ginary figure. So that, if lines were drawn at right angles 
from the shoulder, extending downwards, forwards, and 
sideways, .the arm will form an angle of forty-five degrees 
every way. 

When "the pupil has pronounced one sentence in the posi- 
tion thus described, the hand, as if lifeless, must drop down 
to the side, the very moment the last accented word is pro- 
nounced ; and the body, without altering the place of the 
feet, poise itself on the left leg, while the left hand raises it- 
self into exactly the same position as the right was before, 
and continues in this position till the end of the next sen- 
tence, when it drops down on the side as if dead ; and th« 



OF GESTURE, 



31 



PLATE I. 




14 



ELEMENTS 



PLATE II. 




OF GESTURE. t$ 

body, poising itself on the right leg as before, continues with 
the right arm extended, till the end of the succeeding' sen- 
tence ; and so on, from right to left, and from left to right, 
alternately, till the speech is ended, 

Great care must he taken, that the pupil end one sentence 
completely before he begin another. He must let the arm 
drop to the side, and continue, for a moment, in that pos- 
ture, in which he concluded, before he poises his body on 
the other leg, and raises the other arm into the diagonal 
position before described ; both which should be done be- 
fore he begins to pronounce the next sentence. Care must 
also be taken in shifting the body from one leg to the other, 
that the feet do not alter their distance. In altering the po- 
sition of the body, the feet will necessarily alter their posi- 
tion a little, but this change must be made, by turning the 
toes in a somewhat different direction, without suffering 
them to shift their ground. The heels, in this transition, 
change their place, but not the tees. The toes may be 
considered as pivots, on which the body turns, from side 
to side. 

If the pupil's knees are not well formed, or incline in- 
wards, he must be taught to keep his legs at as great a dis- 
tance as possible, and to incline his body so much to that 
£ide, on which the arm is extended, as to oblige him to rest 
the opposite leg upon the toe ; and this will, in a great mea- 
sure, hide the defect of his make. In the same manner, 
if the arm be too long, or the elbow incline inwards, it wiH 
be proper to make him turn the palm of his hand down- 
wards, so as to make it perfectly horizontal. This will 
infallibly incline the elbow outwards, and prevent the worst 
position the arm can possibly fall into, which is, that of in- 
clining the elbow to the body. This position of the hand, 
so necessarily keeps the elbow out, that it would not be im- 
proper to make the pupil sometimes practise it, though he 
may have no defect in his make ; as an occasional alteration 
of the former position to this, may often be necessary, both 
for the sake of justness and variety. These two last posi- 
tions of the legs and arms are described in Plate IT. 

When the pupil has got the habit of holding his hand and 
arm properly, he may be taught to move it. In this motion 
he must be careful to keep the arm from the body. He must 
neither draw the elbow backwards, nor suffer it to approach 
to the side ; but while the hand and lower joint of the arm 
are curving towards the shoulder, the whole arm, with the 



16 •> ELEMENTS* 

elbow, forming nearly an angle of a square, should move 
upwards from the shoulder, in the same position as when 
gracefully taking off the hat ; that is, with the elbow extend- 
ed from the side, and the upper joint of the arm nearly on 
a line with the shoulder, and forming an angle of a square 
with the body ; (See Plate HI.) this motion of the arm will 
naturally bring the hand, with the palm, downwards, into 
a horizontal position, and when it approaches to the head, 
the arm should, with a jerk, be suddenly straightened into 
its first position, at the very moment the emphatical word 
is pronounced. This coincidence of the hand and voice r 
will greatly enforce the pronunciation ; and if they keep 
time, they will be in tune, as it were, to each other ; and to 
force and energy, add harmony and variety. 

As this motion of the arm is somewhat complicated, and 
may be found difficult to execute, it would be advisable to 
let the pupil at first speak without any motion of the arm at 
all. After some time, he will naturally fall into a small cur- 
vature of the elbow, to beat time, as it were, to the empha- 
tic word ; and if in doing this, he is constantly urged to 
raise the elbow, and to keep it at a distance from the body, 
the action of the arm will naturally grow up into that we 
have just described. So the diagonal position of the arm, 
though the most graceful and easy when the body is at rest^ 
may be too difficult for boys to fall into at first ; and there- 
fore it may be necessary, in order to avoid the worst ex* 
treme, for some time, to make them extend the arm as far 
from the body as they can, in a somewhat similar direc- 
tion, but higher from the ground, and inclining more to the 
back. Great care must be taken to keep the hand open, 
and the thumb at some distance from the fingers ; and par- 
ticular attention must be paid, to keeping the hand in an ex^ 
act line with the lower part of the arm, so as not to bend at 
the wrist either when it is held out, without motion, or when 
it gives the emphatic stroke. And, above all, the body 
must be kept in a straight line with the leg on which it bears, 
and not suifered to bend to the opposite side. 

At first it may not be improper for the teacher, after 
placing the pupil in the position, (Plate I.) to stand some 
distance, exactly opposite to him, in the same position, the 
right and left sides only reversed ; and, while the pupil is 
speaking, to show him, by example, the action he is to 
make use of. In this case, the teacher's left hand will cor- 
respond to the pupil's right ; by which means he will see, 



OF GESTURE, 



ff 



PLATE III* 




OF GESTURE, JaJ 

as in a looking-glass, how to regulate his gesture, and will 
soon catch the method of doing it by himself. 

It is expected the master will be a little discouraged, at 
the awkward figure his pupil makes, in his first attempts 
to teach him. But this is no more than what happens in 
dancing, fencing, or any other exercise which depends on 
habit. . By practice the pupil will soon begin to feel his 
position, and be easy in it. Those positions which were at 
first distressing to him, he will fall into naturally; and, if 
they are such as are really graceful and becoming, (and 
such it is presumed are those which have been just describ- 
ed) they will be adopted, with more facility than any other 
that can be taught him. 

SECTION II 

On the Acting of Plays at School 
THOUGH the acting of plays at schools, has been uni- 
versally supposed a very useful practice, it has of late years 
been much laid aside. The advantages arising from it have- 
not been judged equal to the inconveniencies ; and the 
speaking of single speeches, or the acting of single scenes. 
has been, generally, substituted in its stead. Indeed, when 
we consider the leading principle, and prevailing senti- 
ments of most plays, we shall not wonder, that they are 
not always thought to be the most suitable employment for 
youth at school ; nor, when we reflect on the long inter 
ruption to the common school exercises, which the pre- 
paration for a play must necessarily occasion, shall we think 
it consistent with general improvement. But to wave every 
objection from prudence or morality, it may be confi- 
dently affirmed, that the acting of a play is not so condu- 
cive to improvement in elocution, as the speaking of sin- 
gle speeches. 

In the first place, the acting of plays is of all kinds of 
delivery the most difficult ; and, therefore, cannot be the 
most suitable exercise for boys at school. In the next 
place, a dramatic performance requires so much attention 
to the deportment of the body, so varied an expression of 
the passions, and so strict an adherence to character, that 
education is in danger of being neglected ; besides, exact 
propriety of action, and a nice discrimination of the pas- 
sions, however essential on the stage, are but of secondary 
importance in a school. It is plain, open, distinct, and for* 



20 ELEMENTS 

cible pronunciation, which school boys should aim at ; and 
not that quick transition from one passion to another, that 
archness of look, and that jeu de theatre, as it is called, so 
essential to a tolerable dramatic exhibition, and which actors 
themselves can scarcely attain. In short, it is speaking 
rather than acting, which school boys should be taught ; 
while the performance of plays is calculated to teach them 
acting rather than speaking. 

But there is a contrary extreme, into which many teach- 
ers are apt to run, and chiefly those who are incapable of 
speaking themselves ; and that is, to condemn every thing, 
which is vehement and forcible, as theatrical. It is an old 
trick, to depreciate what we cannot attain : and calling a 
spirited pronunciation theatrical, is but an artful method of 
hiding an utter inability of speaking with force and energy. 
But, though school boys ought not to be taught those nice 
touches which form the greatest difficulties in the profes- 
sion of an actor, they should not be too much restrained 
from the exertion of voice, so necessary to strengthening 
the organs of sound, because they may sometimes be too 
loud and vociferous. Perhaps nine out of ten, instead of too 
much confidence, and too violent a manner of speaking, 
which these teachers seem so much to dread, have, as Dr. 
Johnson calls it, a frigid equality, a stupid languor, and a 
torpid apathy. These must be roused by something strong 
and excessive, or they will never rise even to mediocrity ; 
while the few who have a tendency to rant, are very easily 
reclaimed ; and ought to be treated, in pronunciation and 
action, as Quintilian advises us to do, in composition ; that 
Is, we should rather allow of an exuberance, than, by too 
much correctness, check the vigour and luxuriancy of nature; 

Though school boys, therefore, ought not to be taught 
the fineness of acting, they should, as much as possible, be 
accustomed to speak such speeches, as require a full, open, 
animated pronunciation ; for which purpose they should be 
confined, chiefly, to orations, odes, and such single speeches 
of plays as are in the declamatory and vehement style. 
But, as there are many scenes of plays, which are justly 
reckoned among the finest compositions in the language ; 
some of these may be adopted among the upper class of 
boys, and those, more particularly, who have the best de- 
portments ; for action, in scenes, will be found much more 
difficult, than in single speeches. And here it will be ne- 
cessary to give some additional instructions respecting ac« 



IS 



ELEMENTS 



PXATE IV. 




OF GESTURE, 2$ 

tibn ; as a speaker, who delivers himseli singly *o au audi- 
tory, and one who addresses another speaker, in view of 
an auditory, are under very different predicaments. The 
former has only one object to address ; the latter has two. 
For if a speaker on the stage were to address the person he 
speaks to, without any regard to the point of view in which 
he stands, with respect to the audience, he would be apt to 
turn his back on them, and to place himself in such posi- 
tions as would be highly ungraceful and disgusting. When 
a scene, therefore, is represented, it is necessary that the 
two personages who speak, should form a sort of picture, 
and place themselves in a position agreeable to the laws of 
perspective. In order to do this, it will be necessary that 
each of them should stand obliquely, and chiefly make 
use of one hand : That is, supposing the stage or platform 
where they stand to be quadrangle, each speaker should, 
respectively, face the corner of it next to the audience ; and 
use that hand, and rest upon that leg, which is next to the 
person he speaks to, and which is farthest from the audience, 
This disposition is absolutely necessary, to form any thing 
like a picturesque grouping of objects, and without it, that 
is, if both speakers use the right hand, and stand exactly 
fronting each other, the impropriety will be palpable, and 
the spectacle disgusting. 

It need scarcely be noted, that if the speaker in a scene, 
uses that hand which is next the audience, he ought like- 
wise to poise his body upon the same leg : This is almost 
an invariable rule in action ; the hand should act on that 
side only, on which the body bears. Good actors and 
speakers may sometimes depart from this rule, but such 
only, will know when to do it, with propriety. 

Occasion may be taken in the course of the scene, to 
change sides. One speaker, at the end of an impassioned 
speech, may cross oyer to the place of the other, while the 
latter, at the same moment, crosses over to the place of the 
former. This, however, must be done with great care, and 
so as to keep the back from being turned to the audience. 
But if this transition be performed adroitly, it will have a 
very good effect, in varying the position of the speakers, and 
giving each an opportunity of using his right hand — the 
most favourable to grace and expression. — And if, from s# 
humble a scene as the school, we may be permitted to raise 
our observations to the senate, it might be hinted, that gen- 
flemen on each side of the fa<xwe, frhile addressing the 



-2-4 ELEMENTS 

chair, can, with grace and propriety, only make use of one 
■ hand ; namely, that which is next to the speaker ; and it may 
he observed in passing, that to all the other advantages of 
speaking which are supposed to belong to one side of the 
house, may be added— the graceful use of the right hand. 
The better to conceive the position of two speakers in a 
scene, a Plate is given, representing their respective atti- 
tudes ; and it must be carefully noted, that when they are 
not speaking, the arms must hang in their natural place, by 
the sides : unless what is spoken by one, is of such im- 
portance, as to excife agitation and surprise in the bther. 
But i£ we should be sparing of gesture at all times, we 
should be more particularly so, when we are not speaking. 
From what has been laid down, it will evidently appear, 
how much more difficult and complicated is the action of 
a scene, than that of a single speech; and in teaching 
both to children, how necessary it is, to adopt as simple 
and easy a method as possible. The easiest method of con- 
veying instruction, in this point, will be sufficiently diffi- 
cult ; and therefore, the avoiding of awkwardness and im- 
propriety, should be more the object of instruction, than 
the conveying of beauties. 

There are, indeed, some masters, who are against teach- 
ing boys any action at all, and are for leaving them in this 
point entirely to nature. It is happy, however, that they 
do not leave that action to nature, which is acquired by danc- 
ing ; the deportment of their pupils would soon convince 
them they were imposed on by the sound of words. Im- 
proved and beautiful nature is the object of the painter's 
pencil, the poet's pen, and the rhetorician's action, and not 
that sordid and common nature, which is perfectly rude and 
uncultivated. Nature directs us to art, and art selects and 
polishes the beauties of nature : It is not sufficient for an or- 
ator, says Quintilian, that he is a man : he must be an im- 
proved and cultivated man ; he must be a man, favoured 
t>y nature and fashioned by art. 

But, the necessity of adopting some method of teaching 
action, is too evident to need proof. Boys will infallibly 
contract some action ; to require them to stand stock still 
while they are speaking an impassioned speech, is not 
only exacting a very difficult task from them, but is, in a 
great measure, checking their natural exertions. If they 
ere left to themselves, they will, in all probability, fall into 
very wild and ungraceful action, which, when once formed 



of gesture:. , m 

into habit, can scarcely ever be corrected : Giving them* 
therefore, a general outline of good action, must be of the 
utmost consequence to their progress and improvement in 
pronunciation. 

The great use, therefore, of a system of action like the 
present, is, that a boy will never be embarrassed, for want 
of knowing what to do with his legs and arms ; nor will he 
bestow that attention on his action, which ought to be di- 
rected to his pronunciation ; he will always be in a position 
which will not disgrace his figure, and when this gesture is 
easy to him, it may serve as a groundwork to something 
more perfect : he may either by his own genius or his mas- 
ter's instructions, build some other action upon it, which 
may, in time, give it additional force and variety. 

Thus, what seemed either unworthy the attention, or too 
' difficult for the execution of others, the author of the pre- 
sent publication has ventured to attempt. A conviction of 
the necessity of teaching some system of action, and the 
abundant success of the present system, in one of the most 
respectable academies near London > has determined hiai 
to publish it, for the use of such seminaries as make En- 
glish pronunciation a part of their discipline. 

It may not be useless to observe, that boys should be 
classed in tbis, as in every other kind of instruction, accord- 
ing to their abilities ; that a class should not consist of more 
than ten ; that about eight or ten lines of some speech should 
be read first by the teachers, then by the boy who reads best, 
and then by the rest in order, all having a book of the same 
kind, and all reading the same portion. This portion they 
must be ordered to get by heart against the next lesson ; 
and then the first boy must speak it, standing at some dis- 
tance before the rest, in the manner directed in the Plates ; 
the second boy must succeed him, and so on till they have 
all spoken. After which another portion must be read them, 
which they must read and speak in the same manner as 
before. When they have gone through a speech in this 
manner by portions, the two or three first boys may be or- 
dered, against the next lesson, to speak the whole speech i 
the next lesson, two or three more, and so on to the rest,- 
This will excite emulation, and give the teacher an oppor« 
tunity of ranking them according to their merit, 
C 



2B ELEMENTS 

SECTION III. 

Rules for expressing, with propriety, the principal Passions 
and Humours, which occur in Reading, or public Speaking. 

EVERY part of the human frame contributes to express 
the passions and emotions of the mind, and to show in gene- 
ral its present state. The head is sometimes erected, some- 
times hung down, sometimes drawn suddenly back with 
an air of disdain, sometimes shows by a nod a particular 
person, or object ; gives assent, or denial, by different mo- 
tions ; threatens by one sort of movement, approves by 
another, and expresses suspicion by a third. 

The arms are sometimes both thrown out, sometimes the 
fight alone. Sometimes they are lifted up as high as the 
face, to express wonder ; sometimes held out before the 
breast, to show fear ; spread forth with the hands open to 
express desire or affection ; the hands clapped in surprise, 
and in sudden joy and grief; the right hand clenched, and 
the arms brandished, to threaten ; the two arms set akimbo, 
to look big, and express contempt or courage. With the 
hands we solicit, we refuse, we promise, we threaten, we 
dismiss, we invite, we entreat, we express aversion, fear, 
doubting, denial, asking, affirmation, negation, joy, grief, 
confession, penitence. With the hands we describe and 
point out all circumstances of time, place, and manner of 
what we relate ; we excite the passions of others, and sooth 
them ; we approve and disapprove, permit or prohibit, ad- 
mire or despise. The hands serve us instead of many sorts 
of words, and where the language of the tongue is unknown, 
that of the hands is understood, being universal, and com- 
mon to all nations. 

: The legs advance, or retreat, to express desire or aver- 
sion, love or hatred, courage or fear, and produce exulta- 
tion, or leaping in sudden joy ; and the stamping of the foot 
expresses earnestness, anger, and threatening. 

Especially the face, being furnished with a variety of 
muscles, does more in expressing the passions of the mind 
than the whole human frame besides. The change of colour 
(in white people) shows, by turns, anger by redness, and 
sometimes by paleness, fear likewise by paleness, and shame 
by blushing. Every feature contributes its part. The 
mouth open, shows one state of mind ; shut, another ; the 
gnashing of the teeth, another. The forehead smooth, eye? 



OF GESTURE. £7 

Drows arched and easy, show tranquillity or joy. Mirth 
opens the mouth towards the ears, crisps the nose, half shuts 
the eyes, and sometimes rills them with tears. The front 
wrinkled into frowns,, and the eyebrows overhanging the 
eyes, like clouds, fraught with tempest, show a mind agi- 
tated with fury. Above all, the eye shows the very spirit in 
a visible form. In every different state of mind, it assumes 
a different appearance. Joy brightens and opens it. Grief 
half closes, and dr »»ms it in tears. Hatred and anger flash 
from it like lightning. Love darts from it in glances, like 
the orient beam. Jealousy and squinting envy, dart their 
contagious blast from the eye. And devotion raises it to 
the skies, as if the soul of the holy man were going to take 
its flight to heaven. 

The force of attitude and looks alone appears in a wonder- 
ously striking manner, in the works of the painter and sta- 
tuary ; who have the delicate art of making the flat canvass 
and rocky marble utter every passion of the human mind, 
and touch the soul of the spectator, as if the picture, or sta- 
tue, spoke the pathetic language of Shakespeare. It is no 
wonder then, that masterly action, joined with powerful elo- 
cution, should be irresistible. And the variety of expres- 
sion, by looks and gestures, is so great, that, as is well 
known, a whole play can be represented without a word 
spoken. 

The following are, I believe, the principal passions, hu- 
mours, sentiments, and intentions which are to be expressed 
by speech and action. And I hope it will be allowed, by 
the reader, that it is nearly in the following manner, that 
nature expresses them. 

Tranquillity or apathy, appears by the composure of the 
countenance, and general repose of the body and limbs, 
without the exertion of any one muscle The countenance 
open ; the forehead smooth ; the eyebrows arched ; the 
mouth just not shut ; and the eyes passing with an easy 
motion from object to object, but not dwelling long upon 
any one. 

Cheerfulness, adds a smile, opening the mouth a little 
more. 

Mirth or Laughter, opens the mouth still more towards 
the ears ; crisps the nose ; lessens the aperture of the eyes ; 
and sometimes fills them with tears ; shakes and convulses 
the whole frame ; giving considerable pain, which occa- 
sions holding the sides. 



28 'ELEMENTS 

Raillery, in sport, without real animosity, puts on the 
aspect of cheerfulness. The tone of voice is sprightly. 
With contempt, or disgust, it casts a look asquint, from 
time to time, at the object ; and quits the cheerful aspect 
for one mixed between an affected grin and sourness. The 
upper lip is drawn up with an air of disdain. The arms 
are set akimbo on the hips ; and the right hand now and 
then thrown out toward the object, as if one were going to 
strike another a slight backhand blow.' The pitch of the 
voice rather loud, the tone arch and sneering, the sentences 
short ; the expressions satirical, with mock praise inter- 
mixed. There are instances of raillery in scripture itself, as 
1 Kings x\iii, and Isa. xliv. It is not, therefore, beneath 
the dignity of the pulpit orator, occasionally to use it, in the 
cause of virtue, by exhibiting vice in a ludicrous appear- 
ance. Nor should I think raillery unworthy the attention 
t>f the lawyer ; as it may occasionally come in, not unuse- 
fully, in his pleadings, as well as any other stroke of orna- 
, meat, or entertainments. 

Buffoonery, assumes an arch, sly, leering gravity. Must 
not quit its serious aspect, though all should laugh to 
burst ribs of steel. This command of face is somewhat 
difficult ; though not so hard, I should think, as to restrain 
the contrary sympathy, I mean of weeping with those who 
weep. 

Joy, when sudden and violent, expresses itself by clap- 
ping of hands, and exultation or leaping. The eyes are 
opened wide ; perhaps tilled with tears ; often raised to 
heaven, especially by devout persons. The countenance 
is smiling, not composedly, but with features aggravated. 
The voice rises, from time to time, to very high notes. 

Delight or Pleasure, as when one is entertained, or ra- 
vished with music, painting, oratory, or any such elegancy, 
shows itself by the looks, gestures, and utterance of joy ; 
but moderate. 

Gravity or Seriousness, the mind fixed upon some impor- 
tant subject, draws down the eyebrows a little, casts down* 
or shuts, or raises the eyes to heaven ; shuts the mouth, 
and pinches the lips close. The posture of the body and 
limbs is composed, and without much motion. The speech, 
if any, slow and solemn ; the tone unvarying. 

Inquiry into an obscure subject, fixes the body in one 
posture, "the head stooping, and the eye poring, the eye* 
brows drawn down. 



OF GESTURE. 29 

Attention, to an esteemed; or superior character, has the 
same aspect ; and requires silence ; the eyes often cast 
down upon the ground ; sometimes fixed on the speaker ; 
but not too pertly. 

■ Modesty or Submission, bends the body forward ; levels 
the eyes to the breast, if not to the feet of the superior cha- 
racter. The voice low ; the tone submissive, and words few. 

Perplexity or Anxiety, which is always attended with 
some degree of fear and uneasiness, draws all the parts of 
the body together, gathers up the arms upon the breast, 
unless one hand covers the eyes, or rubs the forehead ; 
draws down the eyebrows ; hangs the head upon the breast ; 
casts down the eyes, shuts and pinches the eyelids close ; 
shuts the mouth, and pinches the lips close, or bites them. 
Suddenly the whole body is vehemently agitated. The 
person walks about busily, stops abruptly. Then he talks 
to himself, or makes grimaces. If he speaks to another, 
his pauses are very long ; the tone of his voice unvarying, 
and his sentences broken, expressing half, and keeping in 
half of what arises in his mind. 

Vexation, occasioned by some real or imaginary misfor- 
tune, agitates the whole frame ; and besides expressing it- 
self with the looks, gestures, restlessness, and tone of per- 
plexity, it adds complaint, fretting, and lamenting. 

Pity, a mixed passion of love and grief, looks down upon 
distress with lifted hands ; eyebrows drawn down ; mouth 
open ; and features drawn together. Its expression, as to 
looks and gestures, is the same with those of suffering, (see 
Suffering) but more moderate, as the painful feelings are 
only sympathetic, and therefore one remove, as it were, 
more distant from the soul, than what one feels in his own 
person. 

Grief, sudden and violent, expresses itself by beating the 
head ; grovelling on the ground, tearing of garments, hair, 
and flesh ; screaming aloud, weeping, stamping with the 
feet, lifting the eyes, from time to time, to heaven ; hur- 
rying to and fro, running distracted, or fainting away, some- 
times without recovery. Sometimes violent grief produces 
a torpid silence, resembling total apathy. 

Melancholy, or fixed grief is gloomy, sedentary, motion* 
less. The lower jaw falls ; the lips pale, the eyes are cast 
down, half shut, eyelids swelled and red or livid, tears trick- 
ling silent and unwiped ; with a total inattention to every 
thing that passes. Words, if any, few, and those dragged 



30 ELEMENTS 

out, rather than spoken ; the accents weak, and interrupted 
sighs breaking into the middle of sentences and words. 

Despair, ^as in a condemned criminal, or one who has 
lost all hope of salvation, bends the eyebrows downward ;- 
clouds the forehead ; rolls the eyes round frightfully ; opens 
the mouth towards the ears ; bites the lips ; widens the 
nostrils ; gnashes with the teeth, like a fierce wild beast* 
The heart is too much hardened to suffer tears to flow; 
yet the eyeballs will be red and inflamed like those of an 
animal in a rabid state. The head is hung down upon the 
breast. The arms are bended at the elbows ; the lists are 
clenched hard ; the veins and muscles swelled ; the skin 
livid ; and the whole body strained and violently agitated ; 
groans, expressive of inward torture, more frequently ut- 
tered than words. If any words, they are few, and ex- 
pressed with a sullen, eager bitterness ; the tone of voice 
often loud and furious. As it often drives people to dis- 
traction, and self murder, it can hardly be overacted by 
one, who would represent it. 

Fear, violent and sudden, opens very wide the eyes and 
mouth; shortens the nose; draws down the eyebrows* 
•gives the countenance an air of wildness ; covers it with a 
deadly paleness ; draws back the elbows parallel with the 
sides ; lifts up the open hands, the ringers together, to the 
height of the breast, so that the palms face the dreadful 
object, as shields opposed against it. One foot is drawn 
back behind the other, so that the body seems shrinking 
from the danger, and putting itself in a posture for flight. 
The heart beats violently ; the breath is fetched quick and 
short; the whole body is thrown into a general tremor. 
The voice is weak and trembling ; the sentences are short, 
and the meaning confused and incoherent. Imminent dan- 
ger, real or fancied, produces in timorous persons, as wo- 
men and children, violent shrieks without any articulate 
visound of words ; and sometimes irrecoverably confounds 
the understanding : produces fainting, which is sometimes 
followed by death. 

Shame, or a sense of one's appearing to a disadvantage, 
Wore one's fellow creatures ; turns away the face from 
the beholders ; covers it with blushes ; hangs the head ; casts 
down the eyes ; draws down the eyebrows ; either strikes 
the person dumb, or, if he attempts to say any thing in his 
Own defence, causes his tongue to falter, and confounds his 
Utterance j and puts him upon making a thousand gestures 



OF GESTURE, p 

and grimaces, to keep himself in countenance ; all of whicb 
only heighten the confusion of his appearance. 

Remorse, or a painful sense of guilt, casts down the coun- 
tenance, and clouds it with anxiety ; hangs down the head, 
draws the eyebrows down upon the eyes. The right hand 
beats the breast. The teeth gnash with anguish, The 
whole body is strained and violently agitated, li this strong- 
remorse is succeeded by the more gracious disposition of 
penitence, or contrition ; then the eyes are raised (but with 
great appearance of doubting and fear) to the throne of 
heavenly mercy ; and immediately cast down again to the 
earth. Then floods of tears are seen to flow. The knees 
are bended ; or the body prostrated on the ground. The 
arms are spread in a suppliant posture, and the voice of de< 
precation is uttered with sighs, groans, timidity, hesitation^ 
and trembling. 

Courage, steady and cool, opens the countenance, gives 
the whole form an erect and graceful air. The accents are 
strong, fullmouthed, and ariiculate ; the voice firm and even* 

Boasting, or affected courage, is loud, blustering, threat- 
ening. The eyes stare ; the eyebrows drawn down ; the 
face red and bloated ; the mouth pouts out ; the voice hol- 
low, and thundering ; the arms are set akimbo ; the head 
often nodding in a menacing manner ; and the right list* 
clenched, is brandished, from time to time, at the person 
threatened. The right foot is often stamped upon the 
ground, and the legs take such large strides, and the steps 
are so heavy, that the earth seems to tremble under them. 

Pride, assumes a lofty look, bordering upon the aspect 
and attitude of anger. The eyes open, but with the eye- 
brows considerably drawn down ; the mouth pouting out, 
mostly shut, and the lips pinched close. The words walk 
out astrut, with a slow, stiff, bombastic affectation of im- 
portance. The arms generally akimbo, and the legs at a 
distance from one another, taking large tragedy strides. 

Obstinacy, adds to the aspect of pride, a dogged sour- 
ness, like that of malice. See Malice. 

Authority, opens the countenance ; but draws down the 
eyebrows a little, so far as to give the look of gravity. 
See Gravity. 

Commanding, requires an air a little more peremptory, 
with a look a little severe or stern. The hand is held out, 
and moved toward the person, to whom the order is givem 
with the palm upwards, and the head nods toward him. 



•32 ELEMENTS 

Forbidding, on the contrary, draws the head backwards, 
and pushes the hand from one with the palm downward, as 
if going to lay it upon the person, to hold him down im- 
moveable, that he may not do what is forbidden him. 

Affirming, especially with a judicial oath, is expressed by 
lifting the open right hand, and eyes, toward heaven ; or, if 
conscience is appealed to, by laying the right hand upon 
the breast. 

Denying, is expressed by pushing the open right hand 
from one; and turning the face the contrary way. See 
Aversion, 

Differing, m sentiment, may be expressed as refusing. 
See Refusing. 

Agreeing in opinion, or conviction, as granting. See 
Granting. 

Exhorting, as by a general at the head of his army, re- 
quires a kind, complacent look ; unless matter of offence 
has passed, as neglect of duty, or the like. 

Judging, demands a grave, steady look, with deep atten- 
tion, the countenance altogether clear from any appearance 
of either disgust or favour. The accents slow, distinct, 
emphatical, accompanied with little action, and that very 
grave. 

Reproving, puts on a stern aspect, roughens the voice, 
and is accompanied with gestures not much different from 
those of threatening, but not so lively. 

Acquitting, is performed with a benevolent, tranquil coun- 
tenance, and tone of voice ; the right hand, if not both, 
open, waved gently toward the person acquitted, expressing 
dismission. See Dismissing. 

Condemning, assumes a severe look, but mixed with pity. 
The sentence is to be expressed as with reluctance. 

Teaching, explaining, inculcating, or giving orders to an 
inferior, requires an air of superiority to be assumed. The 
features are to be composed to an authoritative gravity. 
The eye steady, and open, the eyebrows a little drawn down 
over it; but not so much as to look surly or dogmatical. 
The tone of voice varying according as the emphasis re- 
quires, of which a good deal is necessary in expressing mat- 
ter of this sort. The pitch of the voice to be strong and 
clear ; the articulation distinct ; the utterance slow, and the 
manner peremptory. This is the proper manner of pro- 
nouncing the commandments in the communion office. 
But (I am sorry to say it) they are too Commonly spoken 



OF GESTURE. '33 

ih the same manner as the prayers, than which nothing cap 
be more unnatural. 

Pardoning, differs from acquitting, in that the latter 
means clearing a person after a trial of guilt: whereas the 
former supposes guilt, and signifies merely delivering the 
guilty person from punishment. Pardoning requires some 
degree of severity of aspect and tone of voice, because the 
pardoned person is not an object of entire unmixed appro- 
bation, otherwise its expression is much the same as grant* 
ing. See Granting. 

Arguing, requires a cool, sedate, attentive aspect, and a 
clear, slow, emphatical accent, with much demonstration 
by the hand. It diilers from teaching (see Teaching) in 
that the look of authority is not wanted in arguing. 

Dismissing, with approbation, is done with a kind aspect 
and tone of voice ; the right hand open, gently waved, to- 
ward the person ; with displeasure, besides the look and 
tone of voice which suit displeasure, the hand is hastily 
thrown out toward the person dismissed, the back part to- 
ward him, the countenance at the same time turned away 
from him. 

Refusing, when accompanied with displeasure, is ex- 
pressed nearly in the same way. Without displeasure, it i& 
done with a visible reluctance, which occasions the bring- 
ing out the words slowly, with such a shake of the head, 
and shrug of the shoulders, as is natural upon hearing of 
somewhat, which gives us concern. 

Granting,, when done with unreserved good will, is accom-* 
panied with a benevolent aspect, and tone of voice ; the right 
hand pressed to the left breast, to signify how heartily the 
fovour is. granted, and the benefactor's joy in conferring it. 

Dependence. See Modesty. 

Feneration, or worshipping, comprehends several articles, 
as ascription, confession, remorse, intercession, thanksgiv- 
ing, deprecation, petition, &c. Ascription of honour and 
praise to the peerless supreme Majesty of heaven, and con- 
fession and deprecation, are to be uttered with all that hu- 
mility of looks and gesture, which can exhibit the most pro- 
found self abasement and annihilation, before One, whose 
superiority is infinite. The head is a little raised, but with 
the most apparent timidity and dread ; the eye is lifted, but 
immediately cast down again or closed for a moment ; the 
eyebrows are drawn down in the most respectful manner \ 
the features, and the whole body and limbs f are all compoj- 



34 ELEMENTS 

ed to the mcst profound gravity ; one posture continuing, 
without considerable change, during the whole perform- 
ance of the duty. The knees bended, or the whole body 
prostrate, or if the posture be standing, which scripture 
does not disalkfw, bending forward, as ready to prostrate 
itself. The arms spread out, but modestly, as high as the 
breast ; the hands open. The tone of the voice will be sub- 
missive, timid, equal, trembling, weak, suppliant. The 
words will be brought out with a visible anxiety and diffi- 
dence, approaching to hesitation ; few and slow ; nothing 
of vain repetition, harangue, flowers of rhetoric, or affect- 
ed figures of speech • all simplicity, humility, and lowliness, 
such as becomes a reptile of the dust, when presuming to 
address Him, whose greatness is tremendous beyond all 
created conception. In intercession for our fellow crea- 
tures which is prescribed in the scriptures, and in thanksgiv- 
ing, the countenance will naturally assume a small degree of 
cheerfulness, beyond what it was clothed with in confession 
of sin, and deprecation of punishment. But all affected or- 
nament of speech or gesture in devotion, deserves the sever- 
est censure, as being somewhat much worse than absurd. 

Respect, for a superior, puts on the looks and gesture of 
modesty. See Modesty. 

Hope, brightens the countenance ; arches the eyebrows ; 
gives the eyes an eager, wishful look ; opens the mouth to a 
half smile ; bends the body a little forward, the feet equal ; 
spreads the arms, with the hands open, as to receive the ob- 
ject of its longings. The tone of the voice is eager, and un- 
evenly inclining to that of joy ; but curbed by a degree of 
doubt and anxiety. Desire differs from hope as to expres- 
sion, in this particular, that there is more appearance of 
doubt and anxiety in the former, than in the latter. For it 
is one thing to desire what is agreeable, and another to have 
a prospect of actually obtaining it. 

Desire, expresses itself by bending the body forward, and 
stretching the arms toward the object as to grasp it. The 
countenance smiling, but eager and wishful ; the eye wide 
open, and eyebrows raised ; the mouth open, tone of voice 
suppliant, but lively and cheerful, unless there be distress 
as well as desire ; the expression fluent and copious ; if no 
words are used, sighs instead of them ; but this is chiefly 
in distress. 

Love, (successful) lights up the countenance into smiles. 
The forehead is smoothed and enlarged ; the eyebrows are 



OF GESTURE, 3S 

arched ; the mouth a little open, and smiling ; the eyes 
languishing and half shut, doat upon the beloved object. 
The countenance assumes the eager and wishful look of de~ 
sire ; (see Desire) but mixed with an air of satisfaction and 
repose. The accents are soft and winning ; the tone of voice 
persuasive, flattering, pathetic, various, musical, rapturous, 
as in joy. (See Joy.) The attitude much the same with 
that of desire. Sometimes both hands pressed eagerly to 
the bosom. Love unsuccessful, adds an air of anxiety and 
melancholy/ (See Perplexity and Melancholy.) 

Giving, inviting, soliciting, and such like actions, which 
suppose some degree of affection, real or pretended, are ac- 
companied with much the same looks and gestures as ex- 
press love ; but more moderate. 

Wonder, or amazement, (without any other interesting 
passion, as love, esteem, &c.) opens the eyes, and makes 
them appear very prominent ; sometimes raises them to the 
skies ; but oftener, and more expressively, fixes them on the 
object ; if the cause of the passion be a present and visible 
object, with the look, all except the wildness, of fear. (See 
Fear.) If the hands hold any thing, at the time when the 
object of wonder appears, they immediately let it drop, 
unconscious ; and the whole body fixes in the contracted, 
stooping posture of amazement ; the mouth open ; the 
hands held up open, nearly in the attitude of Fear. (See 
Fear.) The first excess of this passion stops all utterance. 
But it makes amends afterwards by a copious flow of words 
and exclamations. 

Admiration, a mixed passion, consisting of wonder, with 
love or esteem, takes away the familiar gesture, and expres- 
sion of simple love. (See Love.) Keeps the respectful 
look and attitude. (See Modesty and Veneration.) The 
eyes are open wide, and now and then raised toward heaven. 
The mouth is opened. The hands are lifted up. The tone 
of the voice rapturous. This passion expresses itself copi- 
ously, making great use of the figure hyperbole. 

Gratitude, puts on an aspect full of complacency. (See 
Love.) If the object of it is a character greatly superior, 
it expresses much submission. (See Modesty.) The right 
hand pressed upon the breast accompanies very properly, 
the expression of a /sincere and hearty sensibility of obli- 
gation. 

Curiosity, as of a ?3usy body, opens the eyes and mouth, 
lengthens the neck, bends the body forward, and fixes it in 



£6 ELEMENTS 

one posture, with the hands nearly in that of admiration. 
(See Admiration, — See also Desire, Attention, Hope, Inquiry, 
and Perplexity.) 

Persuasion, puts on the looks of moderate love. (See 
Love.) Its accents are soft, flattering, emphatical, and 
articulate. 

Tempting, or wheedling, expresses itsolf much in the same 
way ; only carrying the fawning part to excess. 

Promising, is expressed with benevolent looks, the nod 
of consent, and the open hands gently moved towards the 
person, to whom the promise is made : the palms upwards. 
The sincerity of the promiser may be expressed by laying 
the right hand gently on the breast. 

Affectation, displays itself in a thousand different ges- 
tures, motions, airs, and looks, according to the character 
which the person affects. Affectation of learning gives a 
stiff formality to the whole person. The words come stalk- 
ing out with the pace of a funeral procession ; and every 
sentence has the solemnity of an oracle. Affectation of 
piety turns up the goggling whites of the eyes to heaven, 
as if the person were in a trance, and fixes them in that 
posture so long that the brain of the beholder grows giddy. 
Then comes up deep grumbling, a holy groan from the 
lower parts of the thorax ; but so tremendous in sound, and 
so long protracted, that you expect to see a goblin rise, like 
an exhalation through the solid earth. Then he begins to 
irock from side to side, or backward and forward, like an 
aged pine on the side of a hill, when a brisk wind blows. 
The hands are clasped together, and often lifted, and the 
head often shaken with foolish vehemence. The tone of 
the voice is canting, or sing song lullaby, not much distant 
from an Irish howl ; and the words godly doggerel. Affec- 
tation of beauty, and killing, puts a fine woman by turns 
into all sorts of forms, appearances, and attitudes, but ami- 
able ones. She undoes by art, or rather by awkwardness, 
(for true art conceals itself) all that nature had done for her. 
Nature formed her almost an angel, and she, with infinite 
pains, makes herself a monkey. Therefore, this species of 
affectation is easily imitated, or taken off Make as many, 
and as ugly grimaces, motions, and gestures as can be made ; 
and take care that nature never peep out ; and you repre* 
sent coquetish affectation to the life. 

Sloth, appears by yawning, dozing, snoring, the head 
dangling sometimes to one side, sometimes to the other. 



OF GESTURE. 37 

the arms and legs stretched out, and every sinew of the body 
unstrung, the eyes heavy or closed ; the words, if any, crawl 
out of the mouth, hut half formed, scarce audible to any 
ear, and broken off in the middle by powerful sleep. 

People who walk in their sleep, (of which our inimitable 
Shakespeare has in his tragedy of Macbeth, drawn out a fine 
scene) are said to have their eyes open ; though they are not 
the more for that, conscious of any thing but the dream, 
which has got possession of their imagination. I never saw 
one of those persons ; therefore cannot describe their manner 
from nature , but I suppose, their speech is pretty much 
like that of persons dreaming, inarticulate, incoherent, and 
very different, in its tone, from what it is when waking. 

Intoxication, shows itself by the eyes half shut, sleepy, 
stupid, inflamed. An idiot smile, a ridiculous surliness, 
or affected bravado, disgraces the bloated countenance. 
The mouth open, tumbles out nonsense in heaps, without 
articulation enough for any ear to take it in, and unworthy 
of attention, if it could be taken in. The head seems too 
heavy for the neck. The arms dangle from the shoul- 
ders, as if they were almost cut away, and hung by shreds. 
The legs totter and bend at the knees, as ready to sink un- 
der the weight of the reeling body. And a general inca- 
pacity, corporeal and mental, exhibits human nature sunk 
below the brutal. 

Anger, (violent) or rage, expresses itself witb rapidity, 
interruption, noise, harshness, and trepidation, The neck 
stretched out ; the head forward, often nodding and shaken 
in a menacing manner, against the object of the passion. 
The eyes red, inflamed, staring, rolling, and sparkling.*- 
the eyebrows drawn down over them ; and the forehead 
•mnkled into clouds. The nostrils stretched wide ; every 
vein swelled ; every muscle strained ; the breast heaving, 
and the breath fetched hard. The mouth open, and drawn 
on each side toward the ears, showing the teeth in a gnash- 
ing posture. The face bloated, pale, red, or sometimes 
almost black The feet stamping; the right arm often 
thrown out, and menacing with the clenched fist shaken, 
and a general and violent agitation of the whole body. 

Peevishness, or ill nature, is a lower degree of anger ; and 
is therefore expressed in the above manner, only more mo- 
derate ; with half sentences and broken speeches, uttered 
hastily; the upper lip drawn up disdainfully; the eyes 
msgmat upon the object of displeasure, 
D 



~3 ELEMENTS 

Malice, or spite, sets the jaws, or gnashes with the teeth ; 
Sends blasting flashes from the eyes ; draws the mouth to- 
ward the ears ; clenches both fists, and bends the elbows 
in a straining manner. The tone of voice and expression, 
are much the same with that of anger ; but the pitch not 
;so loud. 

Envy, is a little more moderate in its gestures, than 
malice ; but much the same in kind. 

Revenge, expresses itself as malice. 

Cruelty. (See Anger, Aversion, Malice, and the other 
-irascible passions.) 

Complaining, as when one is under violent bodi-y pain, 
distorts the features ; almost closes the eyes ; sometimes 
raises them wishfully ; opens the mouth ; gnashes with the 
teeth ; draws up the upper lip ; draws down the head upon 
the breast, and the whole body together. The aims 
are violently bent at the elbows, and the fists stropgly 
clenched. The voice is uttered in groans, larneni .<i. ds, 
and violent screams, Extreme torture produces fainting 
and death. 

Fatigue, from severe labour, gives a general languor to 
the whole body. The countenance is dejected. (See 
Grief.) The arms hang listless ; the body, if sitting, or 
lying along, be not the posture, stoops, as in old age. (See 
Dotage.) The legs, if walking, are dragged hetvily along, 
and seem at every step ready to bend under the weight of 
the body. The voice is weak, and the words hardly enough 
articulated to be understcod. 

Aversion, or hatred, expressed to, or of any person or 
thing, that is odious to the speaker, occasions his drawing 
back, as avoiding the approach of what he hates ; the hands, 
at the same time, thrown out spread, as if to keep it off. 
The face turned away from that side toward which the 
hands are thrown out ; the eyes looking angrily and asquint 
the same way the hands are directed ; the eyebrows drawn 
downwards /the upper lip disdainfully drawn up; but the 
teeth set. The pitch of the voice loud; the tone chid- 
ing, and unequal, surly, vehement. The sentence short and 
abrupt. 

Commendation, or approbation, from a superior, puts on 
the aspect of love, (excluding desire and respect) and ex- 
presses itself in a mild tone of voice ; the arms gently 
spread ; the palms of the hands toward the person ap- 
JPlQvedj JSxhQJting, c* encouraging, as of an army \>j a 



OF GESTURE. 3§ 

general, is expressed with some part of the looks and ac- 
tions of courage. 

Jealousy, would be likely to be well expressed by one 
who had often seen prisoners tortured in the dungeons of 
the inquisition, or who had seen what the dungeons of the 
inquisition are the best earthly emblem of; I mean hell. 
For next to being in the Pope's or in Satan's, prison, is the 
torture of him who is possessed with the spirit cf jealousy. 
Being a mixture of passions directly contrary to one ano- 
ther, the person, whose soul is the seat of such confusion 
and tumult, must be in as much greater misery^ than Pro- 
metheus, with the vulture tearing his liver, as the pares oi 
the mind are greater than those of the body. Jealousy is 
a ferment of love, haired, hove, fear > shame, anxiety, sus- 
picion, grief, pity, envy, pride, rage, cruelty, vengea)ice y 
madness, and if there be any other -tormenting passion, 
which can agitate the human mind. Therefore io express 
jealousy well, requires that one know how to rep.: 

lly all these passions by turns. (See Love, Hatred, czed) 
And often, several of them together. Jealousy shows it- 
self by restlessness, peevishness, thoughtfuiness, anxiety, 
absence of mind. Sometimes it bursts out in piteous com- 

int, and weeping ; then a gleam of hope, that all is yet 
vwell, lights up the countenance into a momentary smile. 
Immediately the face clouded with a general gloom, shows 
the mind overcast again with horrid suspicions and fright- 
ful imaginations. Then the arms are folded upon the 
breast ; the fist violently clenched ; the rolling, bloody 
eyes dart fury. He hurries to and fro ; he has no more 
rest than a ship in a troubled sea, the sport of winds and 
waves. Again he composes himself a little to reflect on 
the charms of the suspected person, She appears to his 
imagination like the sweetness of the rising dawn. Then 
his monster breeding fancy represents her as false as she is 
fair. Then he roars out as one on the rack, when the cruel 
engine rends every joint, and every sinew bursts. Then 
he throws himself on the ground. He beats his head 
against the pavement. Then he springs up, and with 
the look and action of a fury, bursting hot from the abyss, 
he snaches the instrument of death . and after ripping up 
the bosom of the loved, suspected, hated, lamented fair one 

Stabs himself to the heart, and exhibits a striking proof, 

vv terrible a creature a puny mortal is, when agitated by 
an iniernal passion. 



40 ELEMENTS 

Dotage, or infirm old age, shows itself by talkativeness) 
boasting of the past, liollowness of eyes and cheeks, dimness 
®f sight, deafness, tremor of voice, the accents, through de* 
fault of teeth, scarce intelligible ; arms weak, knees totter* 
ing^ head paralytic, hollow coughing, frequent expeclora* 
•tion, breathless wheezing, laborious groaning, the body 
stooping under the insupportable load of years which soon 
shall crush it into the dust, from whence it had its origin. 

Folly, that of a natural idiot, gives the lace an habitual 
thoughtless, brainless grin. The eyes dance from object to 
object, without ever fixing steadily upon any one. A thour 
sand different and incoherent passions, looks and gestures* 
speeches and absurdities, are played off every moment. 

Distraction, opens the eyes to a frightful wideness ; rolls 
them hastily and widely from object to object ; distorts 
every feature ; gnashes with the teeth ; agitates all parts of 
the body ; rolls in the dust ; foams at the mouth ; utters 
with hideous bellowings, execrations, blasphemies, and all 
that is fierce and outrageous; rushing furiously on all who 
approach ; and if not restrained, tears its own flesh and 
destroys itself 

Sickness, has infirmity and feebleness in every motion and 
•utterance. The eyes dim and almost closed ; cheeks pale 
and hollow ; the jaw fallen ; the head hung down, as if too 
heavy to be supported by the neck, A general inertia pre- 
vails. The voice trembling ; the utterance through the 
nose ; every sentence accompanied with a groan ; the hand 
shaking, and the knees tottering under the body; or the 
body stretched helpless on the bed. 

Fainting, produces a sudden relaxation of all that holds 
the human frame together, every sinew and ligament un- 
strung. The colour flies from the vermilion cheek ; the 
sparkling eye grows dim. Down the body drops, as help- 
less and senseless as a mass of clay, to which, by its colour 
and appearance, it seems hastening to resolve itself. Which 
leads me to conclude with 

Death, the awful end of all flesh ; which exhibits nothing 
in appearance, different from what I have been just describ- 
ing ; for fainting continued ends in death ; a subject almost 
too serious to be made a matter of artificial imitation. 

Lower degrees of every passion are to be expressed by 
more moderate exertions of voice and gesture, as every 
public speaker's discretion will suggest to him. 

Mixed passions, or emotions of the mind, require mixed 



OF GESTURE. 41 

expression. Pity, for example, is composed of grief and 
love. It is therefore evident that a correct speaker must 
by his looks and gestures, and by the tone and pitch of InV 
voice, express both grief and love, in expressing pity, and 
so of the rest. 

It is to be remembered, that the action, in expressing the 
various humours and passions, for which I have here given 
rules, is to be suited to the age, sex, condition, and cir- 
cumstances of the character. Violent anger, or rage, for 
example, is to be expressed with great agitation, (See An- 
ger) but the rage of an infirm old man, of a woman, and 
of a youth, are all different from one another, and from 
that of a man in the flower of his age, as every speaker's 
discretion will suggest. A hero may show fear or sensi- 
biiity of pain, but not in the same manner as a girl would 
express those sensations. Grief may be expressed by a 
person reading a melancholy story, or a description in a 
room. It may be acted upon the stage. It may be dwelt 
upon by the pleader at the bar ; or it may have a place in 
a sermon. The passion is still grief. But the manner cf 
expressing it will be different in each of the speakers, if 
they have judgment. 

A correct speaker does not make a movement of limb 
or feature, for which he has not a reason. If he addresses 
heaven, he looks upwards. If he speaks to his fellow crea- 
tures, he looks round upon them. The spirit of what he 
Bays, or is said to him, appears in his look. If he expresses 
amazement, or would excite it, he lifts up his hands and 
eyes. If he invites to virtue and happiness, he spreads his 
arms, and looks benevolent, If he threatens the vengeance 
of heaven against vice, he bends his eyebrows into wrath, 
and menaces with his arm and countenance. He does not 
needlessly saw the air with his arm, nor stab himself with 
his finger. He does not clap his right hand upon his breast 
unless he has occasion to speak of himself, or to introduce 
conscience, or somewhat sentimental. He does not start 
back, unless he wants to express horror or aversion. He 
does not come forward, but when he has occasion to solicit. 
He does not raise his voice, but to express somewhat pecu- 
liarly emphatical. He does net lower it but to contrast the 
raising of it. His eyes, by turns, according to the humour 
of the matter he has to express, sparkle fury ; brighten 
into joy; glance disdain; melt feto-grl^f; frown disgust 
and hatred ; languish into love ; or dare distraction. 
D2 



4£ AN ESSAY ON 

RULES RESPECTING ELOCUTION 

[extracted from walker's speaker.] 

RULE I. 

Let your Articulation be Distinct and Deliberate. 

. A GOOD articulation consists in giving a clear and 
full utterance to the several simple and complex sounds. 
The nature of these sounds therefore ought to be well un- 
derstood ; and much pains should be taken to discover and 
correct those faults in articulation, which though often as- 
cribed to some defects in the organs of speech, are generally 
the consequence of inattention or bad example. Many 
of these respect the sounding of the consonants. Some can- 
not pronounce the letter /, and others the simple sounds r, s f 
th } sh : others generally omit the aspirate h. ' These faults 
may be corrected, by reading sentences so contrived as 
often to repeat the faulty sounds, and by guarding against 
them in familiar conversation. 

Other defects in articulation regard the complex sounds, 

and consist in a confused and cluttering pronunciation of 

words. The most effectual methods of conquering this habit 

are, to read aloud passages chosen for the purpose, (such 

for instance as abound with long and unusual words, or in 

which many short syllables come together) and to read at 

certain stated times, much slower than the sense and just 

speaking would require. Almost all persons, who have not 

, studied the art of speaking, have 'a habit of uttering their 

words so rapidly that this latter exercise ought generally 

to be made use of for a considerable time at first ; for where 

, there is atmlformly rapid utterance, it is absolutely impos- 

i sible that there should be strong emphasis, natural tones, 

or any just elocution. 

Aim at nothing higher, till you can read distinctly and 
deliberately. 

Learn to speak slow, all other graces, & 

Will follow in their proper places. f : 

KULE II. ^ / 

Let your Pronunciation be Bold and Forcible. 

AN insipid flatness and languor is almost the universal 
«rault in reading, and even public speakers often suffer 



EL0/ £UTIQN r 43 

their words to drop frorr i their llps with guch a faiftt aod 
^ a , ■ iey a; to and si- fund or 



fe 



desire that 



a * IU> .£ ; a ^puakct withoat energy, is a life- 

less statu 

iQ ^ r< - ' ac quire a forcible manner of pronouncing your 
words, mure r yourseli while reading, to draw in as much 
air as your \\ ^^ can CO ntain with ease, and to expel it with 
ven \ , in uttering those sounds which require an em- 

pnatical } denunciation ; read aloud in the open air, and with 
all tne e xertton you can command ; preserve your body in 
an erec .^ attitude while you are speaking ; let ail the conso- 
nant .founds be expressed with a full impulse or percussion 
P* * ne breath, and a forcible action of the organs employed 
m forming them ; and let all the vowel sounds have a full 
T \<nd bold utterance. Practise these rules with perseverance, 
till you have acquired strength and energy of speech. 

But in observing this rule, beware of running into the ex- 
treme of vociferation. We find this fault chiefly, among 
those, who, in contempt and despite of ail rule and propri- 
ety, are determined to command the attention of the vulgar* 
These are the speakers, who, in Shakespeare's phrase, 
11 offend the judicious hearer to the soul, by tearing a pas- 
sion to rags, to very tatters, to split the ears of the ground- 
lings." Cicero compares such speakers to cripples who get 
on horseback because they cannot walk ; they bellow be* 
Cause they cannot speak. 

RULE III 

Acquire a compass and variety in the height of your Voice. 

THE monotony so much complained of in public 
speakers, is chiefly owing to the neglect of this rule. They 
generally content themselves with one certain key which 
they employ on all occasions, and on every subject ; or if 
they attempt variety, it is only in proportion to the miraber 
of their hearers, and the extent of the places in which they 
speak ; imagining, that speaking in a high key is the same 
thing as speaking loud ; and not observing that whether a 
speaker shall be heard or not, depends more upon the 
distinctness and force with which he utters his words, than 
upon the height at which he pitches his voice, 



44 AN ESSAY ON' 

Bat it is an essential qualification of a good speaker to b& 
able to alter the height, as well as the strength and the 
tone of his voice, as occasion requires. Different species of 
speaking require different heights of voice. Nature in- 
structs us to relate a story, to support an argument, to 
command a servant, to utter exclamations of anger or rage, 
and to pour forth lamentations and sorrows, not only with 
different tones, but different elevations of voice. Men at 
different ages of life, and in different situations, speak in 
very different kevs. The vagrant, when he bescs ; the sol- 
dier, when he gives the word of command ; the watchman, 
when he announces the hour of the night ; the sovereign, 
when he issues his edict ; the senator, when he harangues ; 
the lover, when he whispers his tender tale : do not differ 
more in the tones which they use, than in the key irx which 
they speak. Heading and speaking therefore, in which all 
the variations of expression in real life are copied, must 
have continued variations in the height of the voice. 

To acquire the power of changing the key on which you 
speak at pleasure, accustom yourself to pitch your voice in 
different keys, from the lowest to the highest notes you 
command. Many of those would neither he proper nor 
agreeable in speaking ; but the exercise will give you such 
a command of voice, as is scarcely to be acquired by any 
other method. Having repeated the experiment till you 
can speak with ease at several heights of the voice ; read as 
exercises on this rule, such compositions as have a variety 
of speakers, or such as relate dialogues, observing the 
height of voice which is proper to each, and endeavoring 
to change them as nature directs. 

In the same composition there may be frequent occasions 
to alter the height of the voice, in passing from one part to 
another, without any change of person. Shakespeare's 
"All the world's a stage," &c. and his description of the 
queen of the fairies, afford examples of this. Indeed every 
sentence which is read or spoken, will admit of different 
elevations of the voice indifferent parts of it; and on this 
chiefly, perhaps entirely, depends the melody of pronun* 
ciation. 

■OTTT 17 TV 

: ff'auw-CE your Words with Propriety and. Elegance, 
IT is net easy indeed to fix . upon any standard, by 
which the propriety of pronunciation is to be determines 



ELOCUTION, 4§ 

Mere men of learning, in attempting to make the etymology 
of words the rule of pronunciation, often pronounce words 
in a manner, which brings upon them the charge of arTec* 
tation and pedantry. Mere men of the world,/ notwith- 
standing all their politeness, often retain so much of their 
provincial dialect, cr commit such errors both in speaking 
and writing, as to exclude them from the honour of being the 
standard of accurate pronunciation. We should perhaps 
look for this standard only among those who unite these two 
characters, and with the correctness and precision of true 
learning combine the ease and elegance of genteel life. An 
attention to such models, and a free intercourse with the 
polite world, are the best guards against the peculiarities 
and vulgarisms of provincial dialects. Those which respect, 
the pronunciation of words are innumerable. Seme of t\\® 
principal of them are — omitting the aspirate h where it 
ought to be used, and inserting it where there should he 
none : Confounding and interchanging the v and w ; pro- 
ne uncing the diphthong ou like au or like go, and the vowel 
i like oi or e : and cluttering many consonants together 
without regarding the vowels. These faults, and all others 
of the same nature, must be corrected in the pronunciation 
of a gentleman, who is supposed to have seen too much of 
the world, to retain the peculiarities of the district in which. 
lie was born. 



RULE V. 

Pronounce every word consisting of more than one syllable 
with its proper Accent. 1 

THERE is a necessity for this direction, because m- , n - 

speakers have affected an unusual and pedantic r y 

of accenting words, laying it down as a rule, that the r eeei tf 

should be cast as far backwards as possible ; a rulr t w ^; c k 

has no foundation in. the construction of the Enr aI,u i a ~ 

guage, or in the laws of harmony. In accenting - J* or€ [g the 

general custom and a good ear are the best guj ^ . Q n { 

it may be observed that accent should be resrr •'„ /' i* , u :„ 

•V«, , ,, -j. £ ilated. not by 

any arbitrary rules of quantity or by the f ^ idea ^ 

there are only two lengths in syllables, and that two ghort 

syllables are always equal to oue long, bv J b th ^ 

and nature of the simple sounds. _ ' 



4* AN ESSAY OH 

RULE VI* - X 

& every Sentence, distinguish the more Significant Words 
by a natural, forcible, and varkd €mpUsiSf 

EMPHASIS points out &e precis meaning of a sen- 
tence, snows in what manner one Uea is connected with and 
uses out of another, marks the Several clauses of a sentence, 
gives to every part its proper SO und, and thus conveys to 
the mind 01 the reader U; iG full import of the whole. It is 
m tae power of e^p^asis to make long and complex sen- 
tences appear mteJngible and perspicuous. But for this 
purpose it is necessary that the reader should he perfectly 
acquainted w,:h the exact construction and full meaning of 
every ^sent^nce which he recites. Without this it is impos- 
sible to give these inflections and variations to the voice 
^h*ca nature requires ; and it is lor want cf this previous 
sfjudy, more perhaps than from any other cause, that we so 
often hear persons read with an improper emphasis, or v>ith 
no emphasis at all, that is, with a stupid monotony. Much 
study and pains are necessary in acquiring the habit of just 
and forcible pronunciation ; and it can only he the effect of 
close attention and long practice, to he ahle with a mere 
glance of the eye, to read any piece with good emphasis 
and good discretion. 

It is another office of emphasis, to express the opposition 
between the several parts of a sentence where the style is 
pointed and antithetical. Pope's Essay on Man, and his 
Moral Essays, and the Proverbs of Solomon, will furnish 
many proper exercises in this species of speaking. In some 
sentences the antithesis is double, and even treble ; these, 
must be expressed in reading, by a very distinct emphasis 
on each part of the opposition. The following instances 
are of this kind : 

Anger may glance into the breast of a wise manj but 
tests only in th i cf tools. 

An angry ma ;s his passion, thinks worse 

than I man that will chide, speaks 

worse tin 

Bettei gerve in heaven 

h i to the skies ; 

She b: an angel down. 



ELOCUTION, 47 

Emphasis likewise serves to express some particular 
meaning not immediately arising from the words, bill de- 
pending upon the intention of the speaker, or some inci- 
dental circumstance. The following short sentence may 
Jiave three different meanings, according to the different 
places of the emphasis : — -Do you intend to go to London 
■summer ? 

In order to acquire a habit of speaking with a just and 
forcible emphasis, nothing more is necessary than previous- 
ly, to study the construction, meaning, and spirit of every 
sentence, and to adhere as nearly as possible to the manner 
in which we distinguish one word from another in conver- 
sation ; for in familiar discourse, we sca r ce ever fail to 
express ourselves emphatically, or place the emphasis in> 
properly. With respect to artificial helps, such as distin- 
guishing words or clauses of sentences by particular cha- 
racters or marks, I believe it will always be found, upon 
trial mislead inste ad of assist the reader, by not 

leaving him at full liberty to follow his own understanding 
an:l feeli 

The most common faults respecting emphasis are laying 
so strong an emphasis on one word as to leave no >ower of 
giving a particular force to other words, which \h i gh not 
equally, are in a certain degree emphafical ; and placing 
the greatest stress on conjunctive particles, and otnT?r words 
of secondary importance. These faults are strongly cha- 
racterized in Churchill's censure of MossojJ. 

With studied improprieties of speech 

He soars beyond the hackney critic's reach, 

To epithets allots emphatic state. 

Whilst principles, ungra< icqnies was 

In ways first trodden by himself excels 

And stands alone in undeclmaoles ; 

Conjunction, preposition, adverb, join 

To stamp new vigour on the nervous line, 

In monosyllables his thunders roll, 

He, she, it, and, we, ye, they, fright the soul. 

Emphasis is often destroyed by an injudicious attempt to 
read melodiously. Agreeable inflections and easy varia- 
tions of the voice, as far as they arise from, or are consistent 
with just speaking, are worthy of attention. But to resti- 
tute one unmeaning tone 4 in the. room of all the proprieties 
and graces of good elocution, and then zo applaud this rem* 
ner, under the appellation of musical speaking, can only ba 
th§ etiiect of great ignorance* and inattention,, or of % de* 



43 AN ESSAY ON 

praved taste. If public speaking must be musical, let (he 
words be set to music in recitative, that these melodious 
speakers may no longer lie open to the sarcasm : Do you 
read or sing ? If you sing, you sing very ill. Seriously it 
is much to be wondered at, that this kind of reading, which 
has so little merit considered as music, and none at all con- 
sidered as speaking, should be so studiously practised by 
many speakers, and so much admired by many hearers. 
Can a method of reading, which is so entirely different from 
the usual manner of conversation, be natural and right ? Is 
it possible that all the varieties of sentiment, which a pub- 
lic speaker has occasion to introduce, should be properly 
expressed by one melodious tone and cadence, employed 
alike on all occasions, and for all purposes 1 

RULE VII. 
Acquire a just Variety of Pause and Cadence. 

ONE of the worst faults a speaker can have, is to 
Snake no other pauses, than what he finds barely necessary 
for breathing. I know of nothing that such a speaker can 
so properly be compared to, as an alarm bell, which, when 
once set agoing, clatters on till the weight that moves it is 
run down. Without pauses, the sense must always appear 
confused and obscure, and often be Fii: understood ; and 
the spirit and energy of the piece mubi be wholly lost. 

In executing this part of the office oi ■ speaker, it will by 
no means be sufficient to attend to the points used in print- 
ing ; for these are far from marking all the pauses which 
ought to be made in speaking; A mechanical attention to 
t&ese resting places has perhaps been one chief cause of 
monotony, by leading the reader to a uniform cadence at 
every full period. The use of points is to assist the reader 
in discerning the grammatical construction, not to direct 
his pronunciation. In reading, it may often be proper to 
make a pause where the printer has made none. Nay, it is- 
very allowable for the sake of pointing out the sense more 
strongly, preparing the audience for what is to follow, or 
enabling the speaker to alter the tone or height of the voice ; 
*raes to make a very considerable pause, where the 
grammatical construction requires none at all. In doing 
this, however, it is"necessary that in the word immediately 
preceding the pause, the voice be kept up in such a manner 
as, to latimate, to the hearer that the sense is not completed* 



ELOCUTION. ¥0 

Mr. Garrick, the first of speakers, often observed this rule 
with great success. This particular excellence Mr. Sterne 
has described in his usual sprightly manner, See the fol- 
lowing work, Book VL Chapter III. 

Before a full pause it has been customary in reading to 
drop the voice in a uniform manner ; ^and this has beer- 
called the cadence. But surely nothing can be more de- 
structive of all propriety and energy than this habit. The 
tones and heights at the close of a sentence ought to be in- 
finitely diversified, according to the general nature of the 
discourse, and the particular construction and meaning of 
the sentence. In plain narrative, and especially in argu- 
mentation, the least attention to the manner in which we 
relate a story, or support an argument in conversation, will 
•show, that it is more frequently proper to raise the voice, 
than to fall it at the end of a sentence. Interrogates, 
where the speaker seems to expect an answer, should al- 
most always be elevated at the close, with a particular tone,- 
to indicate that a question is asked. Some sentences are so 
constructed, that the last words require a stronger emphasis 
than any of the preceding ; while others admit of being 
closed with- a soft and gentle sound. 

Where there is nothing in the sense which requires the 
last sound to be elevated or emphatical, an easy fall suffi- 
cient to show that the sense is finished, will be proper. And 
in pathetic pieces, especially those of the plaintive, tender, 
or solemn kind, the tone of the passion will often require 
a still greater cadence of the voice. But before a speaker 
can be able to fall his voice with propriety and judgment at 
the close of a sentence, he must be able to keep it front 
falling, and raise it with all the variations which the sense 
requires. The best method of correcting a uniform cadence 
is frequently to read select sentences, in which the style is 
pointed, and frequent antitheses are introduced, and argu- 
mentative pieces or such as abound with interrogatives, 

RULE VIIL 

Accompany the Emotions and Passions which your words 
express, by correspondent tones, looks, and gestures. 

T ? IERE is the language of emotions and passions as 

well as of ideas. To express the former is the peculiar 

afee of words : to express the latter, nature teaches us 

to maKe use of tones, looks,, and gestures. When angeiv 

E 



*S0 AN ESSAY ON 

fear, joy, grief, love, or any other active passion arises ^ia 
our minds, we naturally discover it by the particular man- 
ner in which we utter our words ; by the features of the 
"countenance, and by other well known signs. And even 
when we speak without any of the more violent emotions, 
^ome kind of feeling usually accompanies our words, and 
this, whatever it be, hath its proper external expression. 
Expression indeed hath been so little studied in public 
■♦speaking, that we seem almost to have forgotten the lan- 
guage of nature, and are ready to consider every attempt to 
recover it, as the labored and affected effort of art. But 
nature is always the same ; and every judicious imitation of 
it will always be pleasing. Nor can any one deserve the 
appellation of a good speaker, much less of a complete ora- 
tor, till to distinct articulation, a good command of voice, 
and just emphasis, he is able to add the various expressions 
of emotion and passion. 

To enumerate these expressions, and describe them in all 
iheir variations, is impracticable. Attempts have been made 
with some success to analyze the language of ideas ; but 
the language of sentiment and emotion has never yet been 
analyzed ; and perhaps it is not within the reach of human 
ability, to write a philosophical grammar of the passions. 
Or if it were possible in any degree to execute this design, 
I cannot think, that from such a grammar it would be pes- 
sible for any one to instruct himself in the use of the lan- 
guage. All endeavours therefore to make men orators by 
describing to them in words the manner in which their voice, 
countenance, and hands, are to be employed in expressing 
the passions, must, in my apprehension, be weak and inef- 
fectual. And, perhaps, the only instruction which can be 
given with advantage on this head, is this general one : Ob< 
^serve in what manner the several emotions or passions ar« 
expressed in real life, or by those who have with great la 
hour and taste acquired a power of imitating nature ; an? 
accustom yourself either to follow the great original itself 
or the best copies you meet with, always however, " with 
this special observance, that you overstep not the modesty 
of nature." 

In the application o£ these rules to practice, or order tc 
acquire a just and graceful elocution, it will be necessary 
to go through a regular course of exercises ; beginning 
with such as are more easy, and proceeding by slow steps 
tg rach a? a? e ojost difficult* In the choice* of these, the 



ELOCUTION, BJ 

practitioner Should pay a particular attention to his prevail- 
ing detect* whether they regard articulation, command of 
voice, emphasis, or cadence : And he should content himself 
with reading and speaking with an immediate \iew to the, 
correcting of his fundamental faults, before he aims at any 
thing higher. This may he irksome and disagreeable : it 
may require much patience and resolution ; but it is the 
only way to succeed. For if a man cannot read simple sen- 
tences, or plain narrative, or didactic pieces, with distinct 
articulation, juct emphasis, and proper tones, how can he 
expect to do justice to the sublime descriptions of poetry, 
or the animated language of the passions 1 

In performing these exercises, the learner should daily 
read aloud by himself, and as often as he has an opporti> 
nitv, under the direction of an intruder or friend. He 

add also frequently recite compositions memoriter* This 
method has several advantages ; it obliges the speaker to 
dwell upon the idea which he is to express, and thereby 
enables him to discern their particular meaning and force, 
and gives him a previous knowledge of the several index- 
ions, emphasis, and tones which the words require. And 
by takmg his eyes from the book, it in part relieves him 
from the influence of the school-boy habit, of reading in a 
different key and tone from that of conversation ; and gives 
him greater liberty to attempt the expression of the coun- 
tenance and gesture. 

It were much to be wished, that all public speakers would 
deliver their thoughts and sentiments, either from memory 
or immediate conception : For, besides that there is an ar- 
tificial uniformity which almost always distinguishes read- 
ing from speaking, the fixed posture, and the bending of 
the head, which reading requires, are inconsistent with the 
freedom, ease, and variety of just elocution. But if this 
is too much to be expected, especially from preachers, who 
have so much to compose, are so often called upon to speak 
in public ; it is however extremely desirable, that they 
should make themselves so well acquainted with their dis> 
course, as to be able with a single glance of the eye, to 
take in several clauses, or the whole of a sentence: 



PART I, 

JLESSONS' IN READING* 



SECTION I. 

SELECT SENTENCES. 

I 

MAN'S chief good is an upright mind, which no earthly 
power can bestow, nor take from him. 

We ought to distrust our passions, even when they ap^> 
pear the most reasonable. 

It is idle as well as absurd, to impose our opinions upon 
ethers. The same ground of conviction operates differ** 
e::tly en the same man in different circumstances, and on 
different men in the same circumstances. 

Choose what is most fit ; custom will make it the most 
agreeable. 

A cheerful countenance betokens a good heart. 

Hypocrisy is a homage that vice pays to virtue. 

Anxiety and constraint are the constant attendants of 
pride. 

Men make themselves ridiculous, not so much by the 
qualities they have, as by the affectation of those they have 
not. 

Nothing blunts the edge of ridicule so effectually as 
'good humour. 

To say little and perform much, is the characteristic of a 
gr^at mind. 

A man who gives his children a habit of industry, provides 
for them better than giving them a stock of money. 

II. 

OUR good or bad fortune depends greatly en the choice 
we make of our friends. 

The young are slaves to novelty, the old to custom. 

No preacher is so successful as time. It gives a turn to 
thought to the aged ; which it was impossible to inspire 
while they were young. 



Sect. I.] WESSONS IN READING. 53 

Every man, however little, makes a figure in his own eyes. 

Self partiality hides from us those very faults in ourselves, 
which we see and blame in others. 

The injuries we do, and those we suffer, are seldom 
weighed in the same balance. 

IVIen generally put a greater value upon the favours they 
bestow, than upon those they receive. 

He who is puffed up with the first gale of prosperity, will 
bend beneath the first blast of adversity. 

Adversity borrows its sharpest sting from our impa- 
tience. 

Men commonly owe their virtue or their vice, to education 
as much as to nature. 

There is no such fop as my young master, of his lady 
mother's making. She blows him up with self-conceit, and 
there she stops. She makes a man of him at twelve, and a 
boy all his life after. 

An infalliijle way to make your child miserable, is to 
satisfy all his demands. Passion swells by gratification; 
and the impossibility of satisfying every one of his desires, 
will oblige you to stop short at last, after he has become 
headstrong. 

III. 

WE esteem most things according to their intrinsic merit; 
it is strange man should be an exception. We prize a 
horse for his strength and courage, not for his furniture. 
We prize a man for his sumptuous palace, his great train, his 
vast revenue ; yet these are his furniture, not his mind. 

The true conveniences of life are common to the king 
with his meanest subject, The king's sleep is not sweeter, 
nor his appetite better. 

The pomp which distinguishes the great man from the 
mob, defends him not from the fever nor from grief. Give 
a prince all the names of majesty that are found in a folio ■ 
dictionary, the first attack of the gout will make him forget 
liis palace and his guards. If he be in choler, will his prince- 
dom prevent him from turning pale, and gnashing his teeth 
like a fool ? The smallest prick of a nail, the slightest pas- 
sion of the soul, is capable of rendering insipid the monarchy 
of the world. 

Narrow minds think nothing right that is above their own 
capacity. 

Those who are the most faulty, are the most prone to find' 
faults in others. 

E 2 " * " 



M LESSONS IN {Part I 

The first and most important female quality, is sweetness 
of temper. ' Heaven did not give to the female sex insinua- 
tion and persuasion, in order to be surly; it did not make 
them weak, in order to be imperious; it did not give them 
a sweet voice, in order to be employed in scolding ; it did 
not provide them with delicate features, in order to be dis* 
iigured with anger. 

Let fame be regarded, but conscience much more. It is 
an empty joy to appear better than you are ; but a great 
blessing to be what you ought to be. 

Let your conduct be the result of deliberation, never of 
impatience. 

In the conduct of life, lei it be one great aim to show that 
every thing you do, proceeds from yourself; not from your 
passions. Chrysippus rewards in joy, chastises in wrath, 
doth every thing in passion. No person stands in awe of 
Chrysippus, no person is grateful to him. Why ? Because 
it is not Chrysippus who acts, but his passions. We shun 
him in wrath as we shun a wild beast ; and this is all the 
authority he has over us. 

Indulge not desire at the expense of the slightest article 
of virtue ; pass once its limits, and you fall headlong into 
vice. 

Examine well the counsel that favours your desires. 

The gratification of desire is sometimes the worst thing 
that can befall us. 

IY. 

TO be angry, is to punish myself for the fault of another. 

A word dropped by chance from your friend, offends 
, your delicacy. Avoid a hasty reply ; and beware of opei> 
Jng your discontent to the first person you meet. When 
you are cool it will vanish, and leave no impression. 

The most profitable revenge, the most rational, and the 
most pleasant, is to make it the interest of the injurious 
person, not to hurt you a second time. 

It was a saying of Socrates, that we should eat and drink 
in order to live ; instead of living, as many do, in order to 
eat and drink. 

Be moderate in your pleasures, that your relish for them 
may continue. 

Time is requisite to bring great projects to maturity. 

Precipitation ruins the best contrived plan; patience 
ripens the most difficult. 

When we sum up the, miseries of life, the grief bestowed 



Sect. I] READING. SS 

on trifles makes a great part of the account ; trifles which, 
neglected, are nothing. How shameful such a weakness ! 

The pensionary De VJii being asked how he could trans- 
act such a variety of business without confusion, answered. 
That he never did but one thing at a time. 

Guard your weak side from being known. If it be at- 
tacked, the best way is to join in the attack. 

Francis I. consulting with his generals how to lead his 
army over the Alps, into Italy, Anaerel, his fool, sprung 
from a corner, and advised him to consult rather how to 
bring it back. 

The best practical rule of morality is, never to do but 
what we are willing all the world should know. 

Solicitude in hiding failings makes them appear the great- 
er. It is a safer and easier course, frankly to acknowledge 
them. A man owns that he is ignorant ; we admire his 
modesty. He says he is old ; we scarce think him so, He 
declares himself poor ; we do not believe it. 

When you descant on the faults of others, consider whe- 
ther you be not guilty of the same. To gain knowledge of 
ourselves, the best way is to convert the imperfections of 
others into a mirror for discovering our own. 

Apply yourself more to acquire knowledge than to show 
it Men commonly take great pains to put off the little- 
stock they have ; but they take little pains to acquire more. 

Never suffer your courage to be iierce, your resolution 
obstinate, your wisdom cunning, nor your patience sullen. 

To measure all reasons by our own, is a plain act of 
injustice : it is an encroachment on the common rights of 
mankind. 

If you would teach secrecy to ethers, begin with your- 
self. How can you expect another will keep your secret/ 
when yourself cannot ? 

A man's fortune is more frequently made by his tongue, 
than by his virtues ; and more frequently crushed by it, 
than by his vices. 

V. 

EVEN self interest is a motive for benevolence. There 
are none so low, but may have it in their power to return a 
good office. 

To deal with a man, you must know his temper, by which 
you can lead him ; or his ends, by which you can persuade 
him; or his friends, by whom you can govern him, 



56 LESSONS IN [Part I 

The first ingredient in conversation is truth ; the next 5 
good sense ; the third, good humour ; the last, wit. 

The great error in conversation is, to be fonder of speak- 
ing than of hearing. Few show more complaisance than to 
pretend to hearken, intent all the while upon what they 
themselves have to say, not considering, that to seek one's 
own pleasure, so passionately, is not the way to please 
others. 

To be an Englishman in London, a Frenchman in Paris, a 
Spaniard in Madrid, is no easy matter, and yet it is necessary, 

A man entirely without ceremony has need of great merit, 

He who cannot bear a jest, ought never to make one. 

In the deepest distress, virtue is more illustrious than vice 
m its highest prosperity. 

No man is so foolish but he may pve good counsel at a 
time ; no man so wise but he may err, if he take no counsel 
but his own. 

He whose ruling passion is love of praise, is a slave to 
every one who has a tongue for detraction. 

Always to indulge our appetites, is to extinguish thenx 
Abstain, that you may enjoy. 

To have your enemy in your power, and yet to do him 
good, is the greatest heroism. 

Modesty, were it to be recommended for nothing else, 
leaves a man at ease, by pretending to little ; whereas vain 
glory requires perpetual labour, to appear what one is not. 

If we have sense, modesty best sets it off; if not, best 
hides the want. 

When, even in the heat of dispute, I yield to my antago- 
nist, my victory over myself is more illustrious than over 
him, had he yielded to me. 

The refined luxuries of the table, besides enervating the 
body, poison that very pleasure they are intended to pro- 
mote ; for, by soliciting the appetite, they exclude the 
greatest pleasure of taste, that which arises from the gratifi- 
cation of hunger. 

VI.— The Fox and the Goat 

A FOX and a Goat travelling together, in a very sultry 
day, found themselves exceedingly thirsty ; when looking 
round the country in order to discover a place where they 
might probably meet with water, they at length descried 
a clear spring at the bottom of a well. They both eagerly 
descended : mid having sufficiently allayed their thirst, be* 



Sect. I] READING, Of 

gan to consider how they should get out. Many expedi* 
ents for that purpose, were mutually proposed and rejected, 
At last the crafty Fox cried out with great joy — I have a 
thought just struck into my mind, which I am confident* 

will extricate us out of our difficulty : Do ycu, said he to 
the Goat, only rear yourself up Upon your hind legs, and 
rest your fore feet against the side of the Well. In this pes* 
ture, I will climb up to yoar head, from which I shall be 
able, with a spring, to reach the top ; and when 1 am cnce 
there, you are sensible it will be very easy lor me to pull 
you out by the horns. The simple Goat liked the proposal 
well, and immediately placed himself as directed ; by means 
of which, the Fox, without much difficulty, gained the top, 
And now, said the Goat, give me the assistance you pro* 
mised. Thou old fool, roplied the Fox, hadst thou but half 
,as much brains as beard, thou wouldst never have believed 
that 1 would hazard my own life to save thine. However, 1 
will leave with thee a piece of advice, which may be of 
service to thee hereafter, if thou shouldst have the good 
fortune to make thy escape : Never venture into a well 
again, before thou hast well considered how to get out of it, 



VlX— The t'cx and 'th 



j- 



THE Fox, though in general more inclined to roguery 
than wit, had once a strong inclination to play the wag with 
his neighbour, the Stork. He accordingly invited her to 
dinner in great iorrn ; but when it came upon the table, the 
Stork found it consisted entirely of different soups served 
up in broad shallow dishes, so that she could only dip in the 
end of her bill, but could not possibly satisfy her hunger. 
The Fox lapped it up very readily ; and every now and then 
addressing himself to his guest, desired to know how she 
liked her entertainment ; hoped that every thing was sea- 
soned to her mind ; and protested he was very sorry to see 
her eat so sparingly. The Stork perceiving she was played 
upon, took no notice of it, but pretended to like every dish 
extremely; and, at parting, pressed the Fox so earnestly 
to return her visit, that he^could not in civility refuse. The 
day arrived, and he repaired to his appointment ; but to 
his great mortification, when dinner appeared, he found it 
composed of minced meat, served up in long narrow necked 
glasses ; so that he was only tantalized with the sight of 
what it was impossible for him to taste. The Stork "thrust 
in her long bilk and helped herself very plentifully ; then 



m Wessons in pw| 

turning to Reynard, who was eagerly licking the outside of 
a jar, where some sauce had been spilled — I am very glaci, 
said she, smiling, that you seem to have so good an appetite * 
I hope you will make as hearty a dinner at my table, as I 
did the other day at yours. Reynard hung down his head, 
and looked very much displeased. Nay, nay, said the 
Stork, don't pretend to be out of humour about the mat*; 
ter ; they that cannot take a jest should never make one, 
YIIL—Tke Court of Death. 
DEATH, the king of terrors, was determined to choose 
a prime minister ; and his pale courtiers, the ghastly train 
of diseases, were all summoned to attend ; when each pre- 
ferred his claim to the honor of this illustrious office. Fe- 
ver urged the numbers he had destroyed ; cold Palsy set 
forth his pretensions, by shaking all his limbs ; and Drops}:, 
by his swelled, unwiekily carcass. Gout hobbled up, and 
alleged his great power in racking every joint ; and Asth- 
ma's inability to speak, was a strong, though silent argu* 
ment in favour of his claim. Stone and Cliolic pleaded 
their violence ; Plague his rapid progress in destruction j 
and Consumption, though slow, insisted that he was sure. 
In the midst of this contention, the court was disturbed 
with the noise of music, dancing, feasting, and revelry ; when 
immediately entered a lady, with a bold lascivious air, and 
a flushed and jovial countenance : she was attended on ono 
hand, by a troop of cooks and bacchanals ; and on the other, 
by a train of wanton youths and damsels, who danced, half 
naked, to the softest musical instruments.; her name was 
Intemperance. She waved her hand, and thus addressed 
the crowd of diseases ; Give way, ye sickly band of pre- 
tenders, nor dare to vie with my superior merits in the ser- 
vice of this great monarch. Am I not your parent 1 the 
author of your beings ? do you not derive the power of 
•shortening human life almost wholly from me 1 Who, then, 
so fit as myself for this important office ? The grisly mo- 
narch grinned a smile of approbation, placed her at his 
right hand, and she immediately became his principal 
favourite and prime minister. 

IX.— The Partial Judge. 
A FARMER came to a neighbouring lawyer, express- 
ing great concern for an accident, which he said, had just 
happened. One of your oxen, continued he, has been gored 
by an unlucky bull of mine : and I should be glad to know 



Sect. I."] READING. - &9 

how I am to make you reparation.. Thou art a very honest 
fellow, replied the Lawyer, and wilt not think it unreason* 
able, that I expect one of thy oxen in return. It is no 
more than justice, quoth the Farmer, to he sure : But, what 
did I say 1 — I mistake. It is your bull that has killed one of 
my oxen. Indeed ! says the Lawyer ; that alters the case : 
I must inquire into the affair ; and if — And if ! said the 
Farmer — the business, I rind, would have been concluded 
without an if, had you been as ready to do justice to others 
as to exact it from them. 

'K.—The sick Lion, the Fox, and the Wolf. 

A LION, having surfeited himself with feasting too lux- 
uriously, on the carcass of a wild boar, was seized with a 

lent and dangerous disorder. The beasts of the forest 
docked, in great numbers, to pay their respects to him upon 
the occasion, and scarce one was absent except the Fox. 
The Wolf, an ill-natured and malicious beast, seized this 
opportunity to accuse the Fox of pride, ingratitude, and 
disaffection to his majesty. In the midst of this invective, 
the Fox entered ; who. having heard part of the Wolfs accu- 
sation, and observed the Lion's countenance to be kin- 
dled into wrath, thus adroitly excused himself, and retorted 
upon his accuser : 1 see many here, who, with mere lip 
service, have pretended to show you their loyalty ; but, for 
my part, from the moment I heard of your majesty's illness, 
neglecting useless compliments, I employed myself, day 
and night, to inquire, among the most learned physicians, 
an infallible remedy for your disease ; and have, at length* 
happily been informed of one. It is a plaster made of part 
of a wolf's skin, taken warm from his back, and laid to your 
majesty's stomach. This remedy was no sooner proposed, 
than it was determined that the experiment should be tried; 
and whilst the operation was performing, the Fox, with a 
sarcastic smile, whispered this useful maxim in the W T olf's 
ear : If you would be safe from harm yourself, learn for the 
future, not to meditate mischief against others* 

XL — Dishonesty punished, 
A USURER, having lost a hundred pounds in a bag, pro- 
mised a reward of ten pounds to the person who should 
restore it. A man, having brought it to him, demanded the 
reward The usurer, loath to give the reward, now that he 
had got the bag, alleged* alter the bag was opened,- that 



60 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

there was a hundred and ten pounds in it, when he lost it. 
The oeurer, being called before the judge, unwarily 
acknowledged that the seal was broken open in his pre- 
sence, and that there was no more at that time but a hun- 
dred pounds in the bag. << You say," says the judge, " that 
the hag you lost had a hundred rnd ten pounds in it." " Yes, 
my lord." il Then," replied the judge, " this cannot be 
your bag, as it contained but a hundred pounds ; therefore 
the plaintiff must keep it till the true owner appears; and 
you must look for your bag where you can find it," 

li. — the riciure. 
SIR William Lely, a famous painter in the reign of 
Charles L, agreed beforehand, for the price of a picture he 
was to draw for a rich London Alderman, who was not 
indebted to nature, either for shape or face. The picture 
being finished, the Alderman endeavoured to beat down the 
price, alleging, that if he did not purchase it, it would lie 
on the painter's hand. " That's your mistake," says Sir 
William, "for I can sell it at double the price I demand." 
" How can that be," says the Alderman, " for 'tis like no- 
body but myself 1" " True," replied Sir William, "but 
I can draw a tail to it, and then it will be an excellent 
monkey." Mr. Alderman, to prevent being exposed, paid 
down the money demanded, and carried off the picture. 

XIII.— The Two Bees. 

ON a fine morning in May, two Bees set forward in quest 
of honey; the one wise and temperate, the other careless 
and extravagant. They soon arrived at a garden enriched 
with aromatic herbs, the most fragrant flowers, and the most 
delicious fruits. They regaled themselves for a time, on. 
the various dainties that were spread before them ; the one 
loading his thigh, at Intervals, with provisions for the hive. 
against the distant winter ; the other revelling in sweets, 
without regard to any thing but his present gratification.. 
At length they found a wide mouthed phial, that hung be- 
neath the bough of a peach tree, filled with honey, ready 
tempered, and exposed to their taste, in the most alluring 
ma.ni> f. The thoughtless epicure, in spite of all his friend's 
remonstrances, plunged headlong into the vessel, resolving 
to indulge^himself in ill the pleasures of sensuality. The 
philosophei the other hind, sipped a tittle with caution^ 
but* being auspicious qf danger, flew off tQ fruits and flow- 



&ct. I] READING. 81 

ers, where, by the moderation of his meals, he Improved 
his'relish for the true enjoyment of them, In the evenings 
however, he called upon his friend, to inquire whether he 
would return to the hive; but he found tan surfeited in 
■sweets, which he was as unable to leave as to enjoy. Clog- 
ged in his wings, enfeebled in his feet, and his whole frame 
totally enervated, he was but just able to bid his friend 
udieu, and to lament, with his latest breath, that, though a 
taste of pleasure might quicken the relish of life, an unre* 
^trained indulgence is inevitable destruction. 

XIV. — Beauty and Deformity, 
A YOUTH, who lived in the country, and who had not 
Acquired, either by reading or conversation, any knowledge 
\>f the animals which inhabit foreign regions, came to Man- 
chester, to see an exhibition of wild beasts. The size and 
figure of the elephant struck him with awe ; and he viewed 
the Rhinoceros with astonishment. But his attention was 
soon drawn from these animals, and directed to another of 
the most elegant and beautiful form ; and he stood con- 
templating with silent admiration the glossy smoothness of 
his hair, the blackness and regularity of the streaks with 
which he was marked, the symmetry of his limbs, and, 
above all, the placid sweetness of his countenance. What 
is the name of this lovely animal, said he to the keeper, 
which you have placed near one of the ugliest beasts in 
your collection, as if you meant to contrast beauty with de* 
formity 1 Beware, young man, replied the intelligent keep- 
er, of being so easily captivated with external appearance 
The animal which you admire is called a Tiger ; and, not- 
withstanding the meekness of his looks, he is fierce and sa- 
vage beyond description ; I can neither terrify him by cor- 
rection, nor tame him by indulgence. But the other beast,- 
Which you despise, is in the highest degree docile, affection- 
ate, and useful. For the benefit of man, he traverses the 
sandy deserts of Arabia, where drink and pasture are seldom 
to be found ; and will continue six or seven days without 
sustenance, yet still patient of labour. His hair is manu- 
factured into clothing ; his flesh is deemed wholesome nou- 
rishment ; and the milk of the female is much valued by 
the Arabs. The Camel, therefore, for such is the name gi- 
ven to this animal, is more worthy of your admiration than-* 
the Tiger ; notwithstanding the inelegance of his make, and 
fhp>- two bunches upon his back. For mere external beaut r 
F 



ft LESSONS IN [Paet t 

is of little estimation ; and deformity, when associated with 
amiable dispositions and useful qualities, does not preclude 
our respect and approbation, 

XV. — Remarkable Instance of Friendship. 
DAMON and Pythias, of the Pythagorean sect in phi- 
losophy, lived in the time of Dionysius, the tyrant of Sicily. 
Their mutual friendship was so strong, that they were ready 
to die for one another. One of the two (for it is not known 
which) being condemned to xleath by the tyrant, obtained 
leave to go into his own country, to settle his affairs, on 
condition that the other should consent to be imprisoned in 
his stead, and put to death for him, if he did not return be- 
fore the day of execution. The attention of every one, and 
especially of the tyrant himself, was excited to the highest 
pitch, as every body was curious to see what would be the 
event of so strange an affair. When the time was almost elaps- 
ed, and he who was gone did not appear, the rashness of 
the other, whose sanguine friendship had put him upon 
Tunning so seemingly desperate a hazard, was universally 
blamed. But he still declared, that he had not the least 
shadow of doubt in his mind, of his friend's fidelity. The 
event showed how well he knew him. He came in due 
time, and surrendered himself to that fate, which he had no 
reason to think he should escape ; and which he did not 
desire to escape, by leaving his friend to surfer in his 
place. Such fidelity softened even the savage heart of 
Dionysius himself He pardoned the condemned ; he gave 
the two friends to one another, and begged that they would 
take himself in for a third. 

XVI.— Dionysius and Damocles. 
DIONYSIUS, the tyrant of Sicily, showed how far he- 
was from being happy, even whilst he abounded in riches, 
and all the pleasures which riches can procure. Damocles, 
one of his flatterers, was complimenting him upon his 
power, his treasures, and the magnificence of his royal 
state, and affirming,- that no monarch ever was greater or 
happier than he. " Have you a mind, Damocles," says 
the kingj " to taste this happiness, and know by experi- 
ence, what my enjoyments are, of which you have so high 
an idea V* Damocles gladly accepted the offer. Upon 
which the king ordered that a royal banquet should be pre- 
/ pared l aud a gilded coucfe placed for him, covered will* 



Sect. 1} READING. 6$ 

rich embroidery, and sideboards loaded with gold and silver 
plate of immense value. Pages of extraordinary beauty 
were ordered to wait on him at table, and to obey his com- 
mands with the greatest readiness, and the most profound 
submission. IN either ointments, chaplefs of flowers, nor 
rich perfumes were wanting*. The table was leaded with 
the most exquisite delicacies of every kind. Damocles 
fancied himself among the gods-. In the midst of all his 
happiness, he sees let down from the roof, exactly over his 
neck, as he lay indulging himself in state, a glittering 
sword, hung by a single hair. The sight of destruction, 
thus threatening him from on high, soon put a stop to his 
joy and revelling. The pomp of his attendants, and the 
glitter of the carved plate, gave him no longer any pleasure. 
He dreads to stretch forth his hand to the table ; he throws 
of! me chaplet of roses ; he hastens to remove from his dan- 
gerous situation; and, at last, begs the king to restore him 
to his former humble condition, having no desire to enjoy 
any longer, such a dreadful Kind of happiness. 

'KVIl.—Character of Catiline. 

LUCIUS CATILINE, by birth a Patrician, was, by na- 
ture, endowed with superior advantages, both bodily and 
mental ; but his dispositions were corrupt and wicked.— 
From his youth, his supreme delight was in violence, 
slaughter, rapine, and intestine confusions ; and such works 
were the employment of his earliest years. His constitu- 
tion qualified him for bearing hunger, cold, and want of 
sleep, to a degree exceeding belief. His mind was daring, 
subtle, unsteady. There was no character which he could 
not assume, and put or! at pleasure. Rapacious of what 
belonged to others, prodigal of his own, violently bent on 
whatever became the object of his pursuit. He possessed 
a considerable share of eloquence, but little solid know- 
ledge. His insatiable temper was ever pushing him to 
grasp at what was immoderate, romantic, and out of his 
reach. 

About the time of the disturbances raised by Sylla, Cati- 
line was seized by a violent lust of power ; nor did he at 
all hesitate about the means, so he could but attain his 
purpose of raising himself to supreme dominion. His 
restless spirit was in a continual ferment, occasioned by the 
confusion of his own private affairs, and by the horrors of 
his guilty conscience ; both which he had brought upon 



64 LESSONS IN (Paiit 1 

himself, by living the life above described. lie was encou=>' 
raged in his ambitious projects by the general corruption 
of manners, which then prevailed among a people infect- 
ed with two vices, not less opposite to one another in their 
natures, than mischievous hi their tendencies : I mea£ 
luxury and avarice. 

XVIII.— Jharice and Luxury. 
-THEPcE were two very powerful tyrants engaged In £ 
perpetual war against each other ; the name of the first 
was Luxury, and of the second Avarice, The aim of each 
of them, was no less than universal monarchy over the> 
hearts of mankind. Luxury had many generals under him* 
who did him great service ; as Pleasure, Mirth, Pomp, and 
Fashion. Avarice was likewise very strong in his officers, 
being faithfully served by Hunger, Industry, Care, and 
Watchfulness ; he had likewise a privy counsellor, who was 
always at his elbow, ami whispering something or other in 
his ear ; the name of this privy counsellor was Poverty. As 
Avarice conducted himself by the counsels of Poverty, his 
antagonist was entirely guided by the dictates and advice 
of Plenty, who was his first, counsellor and minister of state, 
that concerted all his measures for him, and never departed 
out of his sight. While these two; great rivals were thus 
contending for empire, their conquests were very various. 
Luxury got possession of one heart, and Avarice of another. 
The father of a family would often range himself under the 
banners of Avarice, and the son under those of Luxury* 
The wife and husband would often declare themselves of 
the two different parties ; nay, the same person would very 
often side with one ki his youth, and revolt to the other in 
old age. Indeed, the wise men of the world stood neu- 
ter ; but alas ! their numbers were not considerable. At 
length, when these two potentates had wearied themselves 
with waging war upon one another, they agreed upon an 
interview, at which neither of the counsellors was to be 
present. It is said that Luxury began the parley; and 
after having represented the endless state of war in which 
they were engaged, told his enemy, with a frankness of heart 
which is natural to him, that he believed they two should 
be very good friends, were it not for the instigations of 
Poverty, that pernicious counsellor, who made an ill use of 
his ear, and filled him with groundless apprehensions and 
prejudices. To this Avarice replied, that he looked upon 



Sect. I] READING. 66 

Plenty, (the first minister of his antagonist) to be a much: 
more destructive counsellor than Poverty ; for that he was 
perpetually suggesting pleasures, banishing all the neces- 
sary cautions against want, and consequently undermining 
those principles on which the government of Avarice was 
founded. At last, in order to an accommodation, they 
agreed upon this preliminary ; that each of them, should 
immediately dismiss his privy counsellor. When things 
were thus far adjusted towards a peace, all other differences 
were soon accommodated, insomuch, that for the future, 
they resolved to live as good friends and confederates, an$ 
to share between them whatever conquests were made on 
either side. For this reason, we now find Luxury and Ava- 
rice taking possession of the same heart, and dividing the 
same person between them. To which I shall only add, 
that since the discarding of the counsellors above mention- 
ed, Avarice supplies Luxury, in the room of Plenty, as 
Luxury prompts Avarice, in the place of Poverty. 

XIX. — Hercules' Choice. 
WHEN Hercules was in that part of his youth in which 
it was natural for him to consider what course of life he 
ought to pursue, he one day retired into a desert, where ths 
silence and solitude of the place very much favoured his 
meditations. As he was musing on his present condition, 
and very much perplexed in himself, on the state of life he 
should choose, he saw two women of a larger stature than 
ordinary, approaching towards him. One of them had a 
very noble air, and graceful deportment ; her beauty was 
natural and easy, her person clean and unspotted, her eyes 
cast towards the ground, with an agreeable reserve, her 
motions and behaviour full of modesty, and her raiment was 
white as snow. The other had a great deal of health and 
floridness in her countenance, which she had helped with 
an artificial white and red ; and she endeavoured to appear 
more graceful than ordinary in her mien, by a mixture of 
affectation in all her gestures. She had a wonderful confi- 
dence and assurance in her looks, and all the variety of 
colours in her dress, that she thought were the most proper 
to show her complexion to advantage. She cast her eyes 
upon herself, then turned them on those that were present 
to see how they liked her ; and often looked on the figure 
she made in her own shadow. Upon her nearer approach 
to Hercules, she stepped before the other lady, who came 

pa 



68 LESSONS IN [Part Iv 



75:T(\ 



vd with a regular composed carnage ; and running up 
to him, accosted him after the following manner : — 

"My dear Hercules," says she, "I find you are very 
much divided in your thoughts, upon the way of life that 
you ought to choose ; be my friend, and follow me ; I will 
lead you into the possession of pleasure, and out of the 
reach of pain, and remove you from all the noise and dis- 
quietude of business. The affairs of either peace or war, 
shall have no power to disturb you. Your whole employ- 
ment shall be to make your life easy, and to entertain every 
sense with its proper gratifications. Sumptuous tables/ 
beds of roses, clouds of perfumes, concerts of music, crowds 
of beauties, are all in readiness to receive you. Come along 
with me into this region of delights, this world. of pleasure, 
and bid farewell for ever, to care, to pain, to business." 

Hercules, hearing the lady talk after this manner, desired 
to know her name; to which she answered, " My friends* 
and those who are well acquainted with me,, call me Hap- 
piness ; but my enemies, and those who would injure my 
reputation, have given me the name of Pleasure." 

By this time the other lady came up, who addressed her- 
self to the young hero in a very different manner. 

" Hercules," says she, " I offer myself to you, because I 
know you are descended from the gods, and give proofs of 
that descent by your love to virtue, and application to the 
studies proper for your age. This makes me hope you will 
gain, both for yourself and me, an immortal reputation. 
But, before I invite you into my society and friendship, I 
will be open and sincere with you, and must lay down this, 
as an established truth, that there is nothing truly valuable 
wdiich can be purchased without pains and labour. The 
gods have set a price upon every real and noble pleasure. 
If you would gain the favour of the Deity, you must be at 
the pains of worshipping him : if the friendship of good 
men, you must study to oblige them : if you would be ho-, 
noured by your country, you must take care to serve it. In 
short, if you would be eminent in war or peace, you must 
become master of all the qualifications that can make you 
so. These are the only terms and conditions upon which 
I can propose happiness." The goddess of Pleasure here 
broke in upon her discourse : " You see," said she, " Her- 
cules, by her own confession, the way to her pleasures is 
long and difficult ; whereas, that which I propose is short 
and easy," " AJasj" said the otfcer lady, whose visage 



^lct. I] READING, 6t 

glowed with passion, made up of scorn and pity, " what are 
the pleasures you propose 1 To eat before you are hungry, 
drink before you are athirst, sleep before you are tired \ 
to gratify your appetites before they are raised, and raise 
such appetites as nature never planted. You never heard 
the most delicious music, which is the praise of one's own 
self; nor saw the most beautiful object, which is 4 the work 
of one's own hands. Your votaries pass away their youth 
in a dream of mistaken pleasures, while they are hoarding'' 
up anguish, torment, and remorse, for old age. 

" As for me, I am the friend of gods and of good men, an 
agreeable companion to the artisan, a household guardian 
to the fathers of families, a patron and protector of servants, 
as associate in all true and generous friendships. The 
banquets of my votaries are never costly, b>ut always deli- 
cious ; for none eat and drink at them, who are not invited 
by hunger and thirst. Their slumbers are sound, and their 
wakings cheerful. My young men have the pleasure of 
hearing themselves praised by those who are in years ; and 
those who are in years, of being honored by those who are 
young. In a word, my followers are favoured by the gods, 
beloved by their acquaintance, esteemed by their country^ 
and after the close of their labours, honoured by posterity/' 

We know by the life of this memorable hero, to which 
of these two ladies he gave up his heart ; and T believe 
every one who reads this, will do him the justice to approve 
his choice. 

XX. — Will Honeycomb's Spectator, 

MY friend, Will Honeycomb, has told me, for above this 
half year, that he had a great mind to try his hand at a 
Spectator, and that he would fain have one of his writings 
in my works. This morning I received from him the follow- 
ing letter ; which, after having rectified some little ortho- 
graphical mistakes, I shall make a present to the public. 

" Dear Spec — I was about two nights ago in company 
with very agreeable young people, of both sexes, where, 
talking of some of your papers, which are written on con- 
jugal love, there arose a dispute among us, whether there 
were not more bad husbands in the world than bad wives 
A gentleman, who was advocate for the ladies, took this 
occasion to tell us the story of a famous siege in Germany, 
w r hich I have since found related in my historical dictionary, 
after the following manner. When the emperor Conrad 
III. had besieged Guelphus, duke of Bavaria, in the city of 



68 LESSONS IN [Part L 

Hensberg, the women, finding that the town could not pos- 
sibly hold out long, petitioned the emperor that they might 
depart out of it, with so much as each of them could carry. 
The emperor, knowing they could not convey away many 
of their effects, granted them their petition ; when the wo- 
men, to his great surprise, came out of the place, with 
every one her husband upon her back. The emperor was 
so moved at the sight, that he burst into tears ; and after 
having very much extolled the women for their conjugal 
affection, gave the men to their wives, and received the 
duke into his favour. 

l< The ladies did not a little triumph at this story ; ask- 
ing us at the same time, whether in our consciences, we 
believed that the men in any town of Great Britain would, 
upon the same offer, and at the same conjuncture, have 
loaded themselves with their wives 1 Or rather, whether 
they would not have been glad of such an opportunity to 
get rid of them 1 To this my very good friend, Tom Dap* 
perwit, who took upon him to be the mouth of our sex, re- 
plied, that they would be very much to blame, if they would 
not do the same good office for the women, considering that 
their strength would be greater, and their burdens lighter, 
As we were amusing ourselves with discourses of this nature, 
in order to pass away the evening, which now began to 
grow tedious, we fell into that laudable and primitive di- 
version of questions and commands. I was no sooner vested 
with the regal authority, but I enjoined all the ladies, 
under pain of my displeasure, to tell the company ingenu- 
ously, in case they had been in the siege above-mentioned, 
and had the same offers made them as the good women of 
that place, what every one of them would have brought 
off with her, and have thought most worth the saving ? — 
There were several merry answers made to my question, 
which entertained us till bed-time. This filled my mind 
with such a huddle of ideas, that upon my going to sleep, I 
fell into the following dream : — 

" I saw a town of this island, which shall be nameless, 
invested on every side, and the inhabitants of it so straiten- 
ed as to cry for quarter. The general refused any other 
terms than those granted to the above-mentioned town of 
Hensberg ; namely, that the married women might come 
out, with what they could bring along with them. Imme- 
diately the city gates Mew open, and a female procession 
appeared, multitudes of the sex following one another in a 



Sect. I.] HEADING, €§ 

row, and staggering under their respective burdens. I took 
my stand upon an eminence, in the enemy's camp, which 
was appointed for the general rendezvous of these female 
■carriers, being very desirous to look into their several lan- 
dings. The first of them had a huge sack upon her shoul- 
ders, which she set down with groat care : upon the opening 
of it, when I expected to have -eon her husband shoot out 
of it, I found it was hiled with China-ware. The next ap= 
peared in a more decent figure, carrying a handsome young 
fellow upon her back : I could not forbear commending the 
young woman for her conjugal aiibciion, when, to my great 
surprise, I round that she had left the good man at home, 
lad brought away her gallant. I saw a third at some dis- 
tance, with a little withered face peeping over her shoulder^ 
whom I could not suspect for any other but her spouse, -Ul 
upon her setting him down, I heard her, call him dear 

;, and found him to be her favourite monkey. A fourth 
brought a huge bale of cards along With her ; and the fifth 
a Be apdog S ^ r ner husband, it seems, being a very 

bulky man, she thought it would be less trouble for her to 
bring away little cupid. The next was the wife of a rich 
usurer, loaded with a beg of gold : she told us that her 
very old r and by the course of nature, could not 
expect to live long ; and that to show her tender regard for 
/Jui, she had saved that which the poor man loved better 
than his life. 7 no next came towards us with her son upon 
her back, who we were told, was the greatest rake in the 
place, but so much the mother's darling, thai she left her 
husband behind, with a large family of hopeful sons and 
daughters, for the sake of this graceless youth. 

" It would be endless io mention the several persons, "with 
their several loads, that appeared to me in this strange vi- 
sion. All the place about me was covered with packs of ri- 
bands, broaches, embroidery, and ten thousand other mate- 
rials, sufficient to have furnished a whole street of toyshops. 
One of the women, having a husband who w r as none of the 
heaviest, was bringing him off upon her shoulders, at the 
same time that she carried a great bundle of Flanders lace 
under her arm ; but finding herself so overladen that she 
could not save both of them, she dropped the good man, and 
brought away the bundle. In short, I found but one hus- 
band among this great mountain of baggage, who was a 
lively cobbler, that kicked and spurred all the while his wife 

: carrying him off, and, as it was said, had scarce passed a 



70 , LESSONS IN [Part I 

day in his life, without giving her the discipline of the strap, 
" I cannot conclude my letter, dear Spec, without telling 
thee one very odd whim in this my dream. I saw, me- 
thought, a dozen women employed in bringing off one man ; 
I could not guess who it should be, till, upon his nearer 
approach, I discovered thy short phiz. The women all 
declared that it was for the sake of thy works, and net thy 
person, that they brought thee off, and that it was on con- 
dition that thou shouldest continue the Spectator. If thou 
thinkest this dream will make a tolerable one, it is at thy 
service, from, dear Spec, thine, sleeping and waking, 

" Will Eoneycokb." 
The ladies will see, by this letter, what I have often tcld 
them, that Will is one of those old fashioned men of wit and 
pleasure of the town, who show their parts hy raillery on 
marriage, and one who has often tried his fortune in that 
way without success. I cannot, however, dismiss this letter, 
without observing, that the true story, on which it is built, 
does honour to the sex ; and that, in order to abuse them, 
the writer is obliged to have recourse to dream and fiction; 

XXI— On Good Breeding. 
A FRIEND of yours and mine has very justly deuned 
good breeding to be, " the result of much good sense, some 
good nature, and a little self-denial, for the sake of ethers, 
and with a view to obtain the same indulgence from them." 
Taking this for granted, (as I think it cannot be disputed) 
it is astonishing to me, that any body, who has good sense 
and good nature, can essentially fail in good breeding. As 
to the modes of it, indeed, they vary, according to persons, 
places, and circumstances, and are only to be acquired by 
observation and experience ; but the substance of it is every 
where and eternally the same. Good manners are, to par- 
ticular societies, what good morals are to society in general, 
- — their cement and their security. And as laws are enacted 
to enforce good morals, or at least to prevent the ill effects 
of bad ones ; so there are certain rules of civility, univer- 
sally imnlied and received, to enforce good manners, and 
punish bad ones. And indeed there seems to me to be less 
difference both between the crimes and punishments, than 
at first one would imagine. The immoral man, who invades 
another's property, is justly hanged for it ; and the ill-bred 
man, who by his ill manners, invades and disturbs the quiet 
and comforts of private life, is by common consent, as justly 



Sect. I.) READING. 71 

banished society. Mutual complaisances, attentions, and 
sacrifices of little conveniences, are as natural an implied 
compact between civilized people, as protection and obe- 
dience are between kings and subjects ; whoever, in either 
case, violates that compact, justly forfeits all advantages 
arising from it. For my own part, I really think, that next 
to the consciousness of doing a good action, that of doing a 
civil one is one of the most pleasing ; and the epithet which 
I should covet the most, next to that of Aristides, would be 
that of well bred. Thus much for good breeding, in gene- 
ral ; I will now consider some of the various modes and de- 
grees of it 

Very few, scarcely any, are wanting in the respect which 
they should show to those whom they acknowledge to be 
highly their superiors ; such as crowned heads, princes, and 
public persons of distinguished and eminent posts. It is 
the manner of showing that respect, which is different. The 
man of fashion and of the world, expresses it in its fullest 
extent : but naturally, easily, and without concern : whereas 
a man who is not used to keep good company, expresses it 
awkwardly ; one sees that he is not used to it, and that it 
costs him a great deal ; but I never saw the worst bred man 
living, guilty of lolling, whistling, scratching his head, and 
such like indecencies, in company that he respected. In 
such companies, therefore, the only point to be attended 
to is, to show that respect, which every body means to 
show, in an easy, unembarrassed, and graceful manner, 
This is what observation and experience must teach you. 

In mixed companies, whoever is admitted to make part 
of them, is for the time at least, supposed to be upon a foot- 
ing of equality with the rest ; and consequently, as there is 
no one principal object of awe and respect, people are apt 
to take a greater latitude in their behaviour, and to be less 
upon their guard ; and so they may, provided it be within 
certain bounds, which are, upon no occasion, io be trans- 
ed But upon these occasions, though no one is enti- 
tled to distinguished marks of respect, every one claims, 
and very justly, every mark of civility and good breeding, 
Ease is allowed, but carelessness and negligence are strictly 
forbidden. If a man accosts you, and talks to you ever so 
dully or frivolously, it is worse than rudeness, it is brutality 
to show him, by a manifest inattention to what he says, that 
you think him a fool, or a hlocH; ?>d ; and not worth hearing. 
It is much more so with regard to women, who, of whatever 



■« LESSONS IN P>akt SE 

tank they are, are entitled, in consideration of their sex, not 
only to an attentive, "but an officious good breeding from 
men. Their little wants, likings, dislikes, preferences, an- 
tipathies,. and fancies, must be officiously attended to, and, 
if possible, guessed at and anticipated, by a well bred man. 
You must never usurp to yourself those conveniences and 
gratifications which are of common right, such as the best 
places, the best dishes, &c. but on the contrary, always de- 
cline them yourself, and offer them to others, who in their 
turns will offer them to yen ; so that upon the whole, you 
will, in your turn, enjoy your share of the common right. 
It would be endless for me to enumerate all the particular 
circumstances, in which a well bred man shows his good 
breeding, in good company ; and it would be injurious tp 
you to suppose, that your own good sense will not point 
ihem out to you; and then your own good nature will re* 
.Commend, and your self interest enforce the practice. 

There is a third sort of good breeding, in which people 
axe the most apt to fail, from a very mistaken notion, that 
they cannot fail at all. I mean with regard to one's most 
familiar friends and acquaintances, or those who really am 
our inferiors; and there, undoubtedly, a greater degree of 
ease is not only allowable, but proper, and contributes much 
to the comforts of a private social life. But ease and free** 
dom have their bounds, which must by no means be violated., 
A certain degree of negligence and carelessness becomes 
injurious and insulting, from the real or supposed inferiority 
of the persons ; and that delightful liberty of conversation, 
among a few friends, is soon destroyed, as liberty often has 
been, by being carried to licentiousness. But example ex*> 
plains things best, and I will put a pretty strong case. Sup- 
pose you and me alone together ; I believe you Will allow 
that I have as good a right to Unlimited freedom, in your 
company, as either you or I can possibly have in any other *• 
and I am apt to believe, too, that you would indulge me m 
that freedom as far as any body would. But notwithstand- 
ing this, do you imagine that I should think there w r ere no 
bounds to that freedom 1 I assure you I should not think 
so : and I take myself to be as much tied down, by a certain 
degree of good manners to you, as by other degrees of them 
to other people. The most familiar and intimate habitudes* 
connexion^, and friendships, require a degree of good breed-- 
ing, both to preserve and cement them. The best of us have* 
£0Lf>a4 sides;- and it is as imprudent as it is Hi bfed^tc 



- r.T] READING, 73 

exhibit thsni. I shall not use ceremony with you ; it would 
be misplaced "between us ; but I shall certainly observe that 
degree of good breeding with you, which is, in the first 
place, decent, and which, I am sure, is absolutely necessary, 

to make us like one another's company long. 

XXII; — Address to a young Student, 

YOUR parents have watched over your helpless infancy, 
nnd conducted you, with many a pang, to an age at which 
your mind is capable of manly improvement. Their soli- 
citude still continues, and no trouble nor expense is spared ; 
in giving yen all the instructions and accomplishments which 
enable you to act your part in life, as a man of polished 
sense and confirmed virtue. You have, then, already con- 
tracted a great debt of gratitude 10 them. You can pay h 
method, bu| by using properly the advantages 
goodness has afforded you. 
If your own endeavours are deficient, it is in vain that you 
have tutors, books, and all the external apparatus of literary 
pursuits. You must love learning, if you would possess it. 
order to love it, yovi must feel its delights ; in order to 
'■ its delights, you mSist cipply to it, however irksome at 
, constantly, and for a considerable time. If 
! have resolution enough to do this, you cannot but love 
: the mind always loves that to which it has 
a so long, steadily, and voluntarily attached. Habits are 
formed, which render what was at first disagreeable, not on-y 
plea-,:-:, but necessary. 

• indeed, are all the pa'h* which lead io polite 

literature. Yours then, is surely a lot particii- 

education is of such a sort, that its 

prix >pe is, to prepare you to receive a refined plea- 

your life. Elegance, or delicacy of taste, is one 

of tt hjects'of classical discipline : and it is this tine 

h opens a new world to the scholar's view. 

El< 'o has a connexion with many virtues, : 

s of the most amiable kind.' It tends to 
r - -8 good and agreeable : you must therefore 

be ai to your own enjoyment, if you enter on t 

uch leads to the attainment of a classical a 
■uon, with reluctance. Value duly the oppon, 
which are denied to thousands c-bf 

G 



^4 LESSONS -IN [Part"! ' 

Without exemplary diligence you will make hut a con- 
Vendible proficiency. You may, indeed, pass through the 
forms of schools and universities ; but you will bring no- 
thing away from them, of real value. The proper sort and 
degree of diligence, you cannot possess, but by the efforts 
of your own resolution. Your instructor may indeed con- 
fine you within the walls of a school, a certain number 
of hours. He may place books before you, and compel 
you to fix your eyes upon them ; but no authority can 
chain down your mind. Your thoughts will escape from 
every external restraint, and, amidst the most serious lec- 
tures, may be rangipg in the wild pursuits of trifles and 
vice. Rules, restraints, commands, and punishments, 
may, indeed, assist in strengthening your resolution ; but 
without your own voluntary choice, your diligence will not 
often conduce to your pleasure or advantage. Though 
this truth is obvious, yet it seems to be a secret to those 
parents who expect to find their son's improvement in- 
crease, in proportion to the number of tutors, and external 
assistance which their opulence has enabled them to pro- 
vide. These assistances, indeed, are sometimes afforded 
chiefly, that the young heir to a title or estate may in- 
dulge himself in idleness and nominal pleasures. The les- 
son is, construed to him, and the exercise written for him 
by the private tutor, while the hapless youth is engaged 
in some ruinous pleasure, which, at the same time, pre- 
vents him from learning any thing desirable, and leads to 
:he formation of destructive habits, which can seldom be 
removed. 

But the principal obstacle to your improvement at 

school, especially if you are too plentifully supplied with 

money, is a perverse ambition of being distinguished as a 

boy of spirit, in mischievous pranks, in neglecting the tasks 

and lessons, and for every vice and irregularity which the 

'; puerile age can admit. You will have sense enough, I 

i iiope, to discover, beneath the mask of ^ietj and good 

I -nature, that malignant spirit of detraction which endeavours 

to render the boy who applies to books, and to all the du- 

G ties and proper business of school, ridiculous. You will 

to see, by the light of your reason, that the ridicule is misap 

cor plied. You will discover, that the boys who have recourse 

ing, to ridicule, are, for the most part, stupid, unfeeling, igno- 

^W rant, and vicious. Their noisy folly, their bold confidence,, 

^tjmir contempt of learning, and their defiance of authority, 



<Sect. I.] HEADING. 75 

are, for the most part, the genuine effects of hardened in- 
sensibility. Let not their insults and ill treatment dispirit 
you; i^ you yield to them, with a tame and object submis- 
sion, they will not fail to triumph over you with additional 
insolence. Display a fortitude in your pursuits, equal 
in degree to the obstinacy in whicl* they persist in theirs. 
Your fortitude will soon overcome theirs, which is, in- 
deed, seldom any thing more than the audacity of a bully. 
Indeed, you cannot go through a school with ease to your- 
self and with success, without a considerable share of 
courage. I do not mean that sort oi ccurage which leads 
to battles and contentions, but which enables you to have a 
will of your own, and i pursue what is right, amidst all the 
persecutions of surrounding enviers, dunces, and detractors, 
Ridicule is the weapon made use of at school, as well as in 
the world, when the fortresses of virtue are to be assailed. 
You will effectually repel the attack by a daontle^- spirit 
and unyielding perseverance. Though numbers aro 
you, yet with truth and rectitude on your side, you may, 
gh alone, be equal to an army. 
By laying in a store of useful knowledge, adorning you] 
mind with elegant literature, improving and estal 
your conduct by virtuous principles, you cannot fail 
ing a comfort to those friends who have suppo: : of 

being happy within yourself and of being well received by 
mankind. Honour and success in life will probably attend 
you. Under all circumstances, you will have an eternal 
source oi lation and entertainment, of which no sub- 

luna itude can deprive you. Time will show how 

muc has been your choice, than that of your 

companions, who would gladly have drawn you into th 
association, or rather into their conspiracy, as it has 
been called, against good manners, and against all that : 
honourable and useful. While you appear in is j 

able and valuable member of it, they will, T xerba 
have sacrificed at the shrine of vanity, pride, and extra 
ganee, and frhv pleasure, their health and their sense, th 
fortune and their characters. 

XJiI l l.~ Advantages of ttces to, Cheerfulness. 

CHEERFULNESS is in the first place the best promo- 
ter of health nings, and secret- murmurs of the heart, 
ceptible strokes to those delicate fibres of 
'.aia 1 parts are composed, and wear 



• 1$ ' LESSONS IN . [Pari i 

machine insensibly ; not to mention those violent ferments 
which they stir up in the blood, ami those irregular, disturb- 
ed motions which they raise in the animal spirits. I scarce 
remember, in my own observation, to have met with majhy 
old men, or with such who, (to use our English phraab) 
wear 'well, that had not at least a certain indolence in thin 
humour, if not more than ordinary gaiety and cheerfulness 
of heart. The truth of it is, health and cheerfulness mu- 
tually begot each other, with this difference, that we sel- 
dom meet with a great degree of "health, which is net 
attended wiih a certain cheerfulness, but very often see 
cheerfulness, where there is no great degree of health. 

Cheerfulness hears the same friendly regard to the mind 
as to the body ; it banishes all anxious care and discontent, 
soothes and composes the passions, and keeps the soul in a 
perpetual calm. 

If we consider the world in its subserviency to man, one 
would think it was made for our use ; but if we consider it 
in its natural beauty and harmony, one would be apt to con* 
elude it was made ibr our pleasure. The sun, which is the 
great soul of the universe, and produces all the necessaries 
■of life, has a particular influence in cheering the mind of 
man, sad making the heart glad. 

These several living creatures which are made for our 
service or sustenance, at the same time either fill the woods 
with their music, furnish us with game, or raise pleasing 
ideas in us by the delightfulness of their appearance. 
Fountains, lakes, and rivers, are as refreshing to the ima- 
gination, as to the soil through which they pass. 

There are writers of great distinction, who have made it 
an argument for Providence, that the whole earth is cover- 
ed with green, rather than with any other colour, as being 
such a right mixture of light and shade, that it comforts and 
strengthens the eye, instead of weakening or grieving it 
For this reason, several painters have a green cloth hanging 
near them, to ease the eye upon, after too great an applica- 
tion to their colouring. A famous modern philosopher ac- 
counts for it in the following manner : — all colours that arc 
most luminous, overpower and dissipate the animal spirits 
which are employed in sight; on the contrary, those that 
are more obscure, do not give the animal spirits a sufficient 
exercise ; whereas, the rays that produce in us the idea of 
green, fall upon the eye in such a due proportion, thai 
they give the animal spirits their proper play, and by keen- 






I] READING. 77 



; up the struggle in a just fealance, excite a very pleasing 
and agreeable sensation, Let the cause be what it will, the 
eifect is certain ; tor which reason cribe to this 

particular colour, the epithet of cheerful. 

To consider further this double end in the works of na- 
ture, and how they are at the same time both useful and en- 
abling, we find that the most important parts in the ve- 
getable world are those which are the most beautiful. These 
are the seeds by which the several races of plants are propa- 
gated and continued, and which are always lodged in flow 
or blossoms. Nature seems to hide her principal design 
and to be industrious in making the earth gay and delight- 
ful, while she is carrying on her great work, and intent upon 
] er own preservation. The husbandman, after the same 

aner, is employed in laying out the whole country in 
a kind of garden or landscape, and making every thing 
ile about him, whilst, in reality, he thinks of nothing 

f the harvest and increase which is to arise from it 
We may farther observe how Providence has taken 
eep up this cheerfulness in the mind of man, by having 
formed it after such a manner, as to make it capable of con- 
ceiving delight from several objects which seem to have 
very little use in them ; as from the wildness of rocks ana 
and the like grotesque parts of nature. Those 
who are versed in philosophy, may still carry this consider- 
ation higher., by observing, that if matter had appeared to 
us endowed only with sal qualities which it actually 

possesses, it would have made but a very joyless and uncom- 
fortable figure ; and why h idence given it a power of 
producing in us such imaginary qualities, as tastes and co- 
lours, sounds and smells, heat . but that man, while 
he is conversant in the lower stations ql nature, might have 
his mind cheered and delighted with agreeable sensations ? 
In short, the whole universe is a kind of theatre, rilled with 
objects that either raise in us pleasure, amusement, or ad- 
miration. 

The reader's own thoughts will suggest to him the vicis- 
situdes of day and night, the change of seasons, with all that 
variety of scenes which diversify the face of nature, and fill 
the mind with a perpetual succession of beautiful and pleas- 
ing images. 

I shall not here mention the several entertainments of 
art, with the pleasures of friendship, books, conversation, 
and other accidental diversions of life, because I would 
G2 



78 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

only take notice of such incitements to a cheerful temper, as 
offer themselves to persons of all ranks and conditions, and 
which may sufficiently show us that Providence did not de- 
sign this world should be filled with murmurs and repinings, 
or that the heart of man should be involved in gloom and 
melancholy. 

I the more inculcate this cheerfulness of temper, as it 
is a virtue in which our countrymen are observed to be 
more deficient than any other nation. Melancholy is a 
kind of demon that haunts our island, and often conveys 
herself to us in an easterly wind. A celebrated French 
novelist, in opposition to those who begin their romances 
with the flowery seasons of the year, enters on his story 
thus : — (i In the gloomy month of November, when the peo- 
ple of England hang and drown themselves, a disconsolate 
lover walked out into the fields," &c. 

Every one ought to fence against the temper of his cli- 
mate or constitution, and frequently to indulge in himself 
those considerations which may give him a serenity of mind, 
and enable him to bear up cheerfully against those little 
and misfortunes, which are common to human nature, 
:vh!ch, hy right improvement of them, will produce a 
satiety of joy, and uninterrupted happiness. 

At the same time that I would engage my readers to 
consider the world in its most agreeable lights. I must own 
there are many evils which naturally spring up amidst the 
entertainments that are provided for us : but these, if rightly 
considered, should be far from overcasting the mind with 
sorrow, or destroying that cheerfulness of temper which I 
have been recommending. This intersperskm of evil with 
good, and pain with pleasure, in the works of nature, is 
very truly ascribed by Mr. Locke, in his Essay on Human 
Understanding, to a moral reason, in the following words : — 

"Beyond all this, we may find another reason why God 
hath scattered up and down several degrees of pleasure and 
pain, in all the things that environ and affect us, and blend- 
ed them together in almost all that our thoughts and senses 
have to do with ; that we, rinding imperfection, dissatis- 
faction, and want of complete happiness in all the enjoy- 
ments which the creatures can afford us, might be led to seek 
it in the enjoyment of Him, with whom there is fulness of 
joy, and at whose right hand are pleasures for evermore." 



«V1 



Sect. II] READING, 7Q 

SECTION IL 
- I— The Bad Reader. 

JULIUS had acquired great < redit at Cambridge, by 
his compositions. They were elegant, animated, and judi- 
cious ; and several prizes, at different times, had been ad- 
judged to him. An oration which he delivered the week 
before he left the university, had been honoured with par- 
ticular applause ; and on his return home, he was impa- 
tient to gratify his vanity, and to extend his reputation, by 
having it read to a number of his father's literary friends. 

Ap.- ij was therefore collected; and after dinnei the 
manure ipt was produced. Julius declined the office of 
reader, b -cause he had contracted a hoarseness on his jour- 
ney ; and a conceited young man, with great forwardness- 
offered his services. Whilst he was settling himself on his 
t, licking his lips and adjusting his mouth, hawking, 
hemming, and making other ridiculous preparations for 
the performance which be had undertaken, a profound 
silence reigned through the company, the united effect of 
attention and expectation. The reader at length began * 
but his tone of voice was so shrill and dissonant, his utter- 
ance so vehement, his pronunciation so affected, his empha- 
irv ^dicipqs, and his accents were so improperly pla~ 
manners alone 'restrained the laughter of the 
i was all this while upon the rack, and his 

a vv .. n once extended to snatch his compose 

lion from comb who delivered it, But he proceeded 

with fail in his own elocution ; uniformly over- 

stepping, sespeare expresses it, the modesty of nature. 

When tli€ o: Lion was concluded, the gentlemen returned 
their thanks to the author ; but the compliments which they 
paid him were more expressive of politeness and civility., 
than the conviction of his merit. Indeed, the beauties of 
his composition had been converted, by bad reading, into 
blemishes ; and tbe sense of it rendered obscure, and e T *>2n 
unintelligible. Julius and his father could not conceal their 
vexation and disappointment : and the guests, perceiving 
that they laid them under a painful restraint, withdrew, as 
soon as decency permitted, to their respective habitations, 

II. — Respect due to Old Age. 
IT happened at Athens, during a public representation 
of some play exhibited in honour of the commonwealth, that 



I 



LESSONS IN [£am I 

n old gentleman came too late for a place suitable to his 
re and quality. Man]/ of the young gentlemen, who 
jrved the difficulty and confusion he was in, made signs 
him that th&j would accommodate him, if he came where 
they sat. The good man bustled through the crowd .ac- 
cordingly ; but when he came to the seat to which he was 
invited, the jest was to sit close and expose him, as he stoo id 
out of countenance, to the whole audience. The frolic 
wont round all the Athenian benches. But on those occa- 
sions, there were also particular places assigned for foreign- 
ers. When the good man skulked towards the boxes ap- 
pointed for the Lacedemonians, that honest people, more 
virtuous than polite, rose up all to a man, and with the 
greatest respect, received him cmong them. The Atheni- 
ans, being "suddenly touched with a sense of the Spartan 
virtue and their own degeneracy, gave a thunder of ap- 
plause ; and the old man cried out, ci the Athenians under- 
stand what is good, but the Lacedemonians practise n. : ' 

III.— -Piety to God recommended to the Young. 
WHAT I shall first recommend, is piety to God. With 
this I begin, both as the foundation of good morals, and as 
a disposition particularly graceful and becoming in youth. 
To be void of it, argues a cold heart, destitute of some of 
the best affections which belong to that age. Youth is the 
season of warm and generous emotions. The heart should 
then spontaneously rise into the admiration of what is great ; 
glow with the love of what is fair and excellent ; and melt 
at the discovery of tenderness and goodness. Where can 
any object be found so proper to kindle these affections, as 
the Father of the universe, and 'the Author of all felicity ? 
Unmoved by veneration, can you contemplate that grandeur 
and majesty which his works every where display ? Un- 
touched by gratitude, can you view that profusion of good, 
which, in this pleasing season of life, his beneficent hand 
pours around you 1 Happy in the love and affection of those 
with whom you are connected, look up to the Supreme 
Being, as the inspirer of all the friendship which has ever 
been shown you by others ; himself your best and your first 
friend ; formerly the supporter of your infancy, and the 
guide of your childhood ; now the guardian of your youth, 
and the hope of your coming years. View religious ho- 
mage as a natural expression of gratitude to him for all his 
goodness. Consider it as the service of the God of your 



Sect. II.] READING. Si 

fathers ; of him to whom your parents devoted you ; of him 
whom, ia former ages, your ancestors honoured; and by 
whom they are now rewarded and blessed in heaven; Con- 
nected with so many tender sensibilities of soul, let religion 
be with you, not the cold and barren offspring of specula- 
tion ; but the warm and vigorous dictate of the hears. 

IY.— Modesty and Docility. 
TO piety, join modesty and docility, reverence to your 
parents, and submission to those who are you* superiors :^ 
knowledge, in station, and in years. Dependence and obe- 
dience belong to youth. Modesty is one of its chief orna- 
ments ; and has ever heen esteemed a presage of rising me- 
rit. When entering on the career of hie, it is your part not 
to assame the reins as yet, into your hafrds ; hut to commit 
you: o the guidance of the more experienced, and to 

become wise by the wisdom of those who have gone heibre 
yon. Of all the follies incident to youth, there are none 
which either deform its present appearance, or blast the 
prospect of its future prosperity, more than self conceit, 
presumption, and obstinacy. By checking its natural pro- 
: s in improvement, they hx it in long immaturity ; and 
frequently produce mischiefs which can never he repair* J 
Yet these are vices too commonly found among the young, 
Big with enterprise, and elated by hope, they resolve to 
trust for success to none hut themselves. Full of their own 
abilities, they deride the admonitions which are given them 
by their Friends, as the timorous suggestions of age. Too 
wise to learn, too impatient to deliberate, too forward to be 
restrained, they plunge, with precipitant indiscretion, into 
the midst of all the dangers with which life abounds. 

V. — -Sincerity. 
IT is necessary to recommend to you sincerity and truth, 
These are the basis of every virtue. That darkness of cha- 
racter, where we can see no heart ; those foldings of art, 
through which no native affection is allowed to penetrate, 
present an object unamiable in every season of life, but par- 
ticularly odious in youth. If, at an age when the heart is 
warm, when the emotions are strong, and when nature is 
expected to show herself free and open, you can already 
smile and deceive, what are we to look for when you shall 
be longer hackneyed in the ways of men ; when interest shall 
have completed the obduration of your heart ; and expert 



Wi LESSONS IN [Part I. 

ence shall have improved you in all the arts of guile 1 Dis- 
simulation in youth is the forerunner of perfidy in old age. 
Its first appearance is the fated omen of growing depravity 
and future shame. It degrades parts and learning, obscures 
the lustre of every accomplishment, and sinks yen into con- 
tempt with God and man. As you Value, therefore, the 
approbation of heaven, or the esteem of the world, cultivate 
the love of truth. In all your proceedings be direct and 
consistent. Ingenuity and candour possess the most pow- 
erful charm : they bespeak universal favour, and carry arr 
apology for almost every failing. The path of truth is a 
plain and safe path ; that of falsehood is a perplexing maze. 
After the first departure from sincerity, it is not in your 
power to stop. One artifice unavoidably leads on to ano- 
ther : till, as the intricacy of the labyrinth increases, you 
are left entangled in your own snare. Deceit discovers a 
little mind, which stops at temporary expedients, without 
tg to comprehensive views of conduct. It betrays, at 
the same time, a dastardly spirit. It is the resource of one 
who wants courage to avow his designs, or to rest upon him- 
self. Whereas, openness of character displays that gene- 
rous boldness, which ought to distinguish youth. To set 
out in the world with no other principle than a crafty atten- 
tion to interest, betokens one who is destined for creeping 
through the inferior walks of life : but to give an early pre- 
ference to honour above gain, when they stand in competi- 
tion ; to despise every advantage which cannot be attained 
without dishonest arts ; to brook no meanness, and to stoop 
to no dissimulation, are the indications of a great mind, the 
presages of future eminence and distinction in life. At the 
mime time, this virtuous sincerity is perfectly consistent 
A/ith the most prudent vigilance and caution. It is opposed 
to cunning, not to true wisdom. It is not the simplicity of 
a weak and improvident, but the candour of an enlarged 
rand noble mind ; of one who scorns deceit, because be ac- 
counts it both base and unprofitable ; and who seeks no 
disguise, because he needs none to hide him. 

VI. — Benevolence and Humanity. 
YOUTH is the proper season for cultivating ihe benevo* 
lent and humane affections. As a great part of your hap- 
piness is to depend on the connexions which you form with 
others, it is of high importance that you acquire betimes, the 
temper and the manners which will render such connexions 



Sect, ll.] READING. 8~3 

comfortable. Let a sense of justice be the foundation of 
all your social qualities. In your most early intercourse 
with the world, and even In your youthful amusements, let 
no unfairness be found. Engrave en your mind that sacred 
rule of " doing in all things to ethers according to your wish 
that they should do unto you." For this end, impress your- 
selves with a deep sense of the original and natural equality 
of men. Whatever advantage of birth or fortune you pos- 
sess, never display them with an ostentatious superiority. 
Leave the subordinations of rank to regulate the inter- 
course of more advanced years. At present it becomes you 
to act among your companions as man with man. Remem- 
ber how unknown to you are the vicissitudes of the world; 
and how often they, on whom ignorant and contemptuous 
young men once looked down with scorn, have risen to be 
their superiors in future years. Compassion is an emotion of 
which you ought never to be ashamed. Graceful in youth 
is the tear of sympathy, and the heart that melts at the tale 
of wo. Let not ease and indulgences contract your affec- 
tions, and wrap you up in selfish enjoyment. Accustom 
yourselves to think of the distresses of human life ; of the 
solitary cottage, the dying parent, and the weeping orphan. 
Never sport with pain and distress in any of your amuse- 
ments, nor treat even the meanest insect with wanton 
cruelty. 

VII. — Industry and Application. 
DILIGENCE, industry, and proper application of time, 
are material duties of the young. To no purpose are they 
endowed with the best abilities, if they want activity for 
exerting them. Unavailing in this case, will be every direc- 
tion that can be given them, either for their temporal or 
spiritual welfare. In youth the habits of industry are most 
easily acquired ; in youth the incentives to it are strongest 
from ambition and from duty, from emulation and hope^ 
from all the prospects which the beginning of life affords. 
If, dead to these calls, you already languish in slothful inac- 
tion, what will be able to quicken the more sluggish current 
of advancing years 1 Industry is not only the instrument of 
improvement, but the foundation of pleasure. Nothing is 
£o opposite to true enjoyment of life, as the relaxed and 
feeble state of an indolent mind. He who is a stranger to 
industry, may possess, but he cannot enjoy. For it is la- 
bour only which gives the relish to pleasure. It is the ap- 
pointed vehicle of every good man. It is -the indispensable 



84 LESSENS IN [PjibtL 

condition of om possessing a sound mind in a sound "body. 
Sloth Is so inconsistent with both, that it is hard to deter- 
mine whether it be a greater foe to virtue, or to health and 
happiness. Inactive as it is in itself, its effects are fatally 
powerful. Though it appear a slowly flowing stream, yet 
it undermines all that is stable and flourishing. It not only 
saps the foundation of every virtue, hut pours upon you a 
deluge of crimes and evils. It is like water, which first 
putrefies by stagnation, and then sends up noxious vapours, 
and fills the atmosphere with death. Fly, therefore, from 
idleness, as the certain parent both of guilt and ruin. And 
under idleness I include, not mere inaction only, but all 
that circle of trifling occupations in which too many saunter 
away their youth ; perpetually engaged in frivolous society 
or public amusements ; in the labours of dress, or the osten- 
tation of their persons. Is this the foundation which you 
lay for future usefulness and esteem 1 By such accomplish- 
ments do you hope to recommend themselves to the think- 
ing part of the world, and to answer the expectations of 
your friends and your country 7 Amusements youth require ; 
it were vain, k were cruel to prohibit them. But though 
allowable as the relaxation, they are most culpable as the 
"business of the young;*. For the}" then become the ^jli of 
time, and the poison cf the mind. They foment bad pas- 
sions. They weaken the manly powers. They sink the 
native vigour of youth into contemptible effeminacy. 

VIII.— Proper Emplmj-meni of Time. 
REDEEMING your time from such dangerous waste, 
seek to fill it with employments which you may review with 
satisfaction. The acquisition of knowledge is one ci the 
most honourable occupations of youth. ike desire el it 
discovers a liberal mind, and is connected with many ac- 
complishments and many virtues. But though your tram 
of life should not lead you to study, the course of education 
always furnishes proper employments to a well disposed 
mind. Whatever you pursue, be emulous to excel. (A 
rous ambition and sensibility to praise, are, especially at your 
age, among the marks of virtue. Think Boi that rev afflu- 
ence- of fortune, or any elevation of rank, exempts yon from 
the duties of application and industry. Industry is the law 
of cur being; it is the demand of nature, of reason, and cf 
God. Remember, always, that the years which new pass 
over your heads, leave permammt memorials behind thetm- 



;t, It] READING, 3. 

From the thoughtless minds they may escape ; but they 
remain in the remembrance of God. They form an impor- 
tant part of the register of your life. They will hereafter 
bear testimony, either for qi against you, at that .day, when 
for all your actions, but particularly for the employments 
of youth, you must give an account to God. Whether 
your future course is destined to be long or short, after 
this manner it should commence, and if it continue to be 
thus conducted, its conclusion, at what time soever it ar« 
rives, will not be inglorious or unhappy. 

IX.— The True Patriot. 
ANDREW BORIA', of Genoa, the greatest sea captain 
of the age he lived in, set his country free from the yoke 
of France. Beloved by his fellow citizens; and supported 
by the emperor Charles V., it was in his power to assume 
sovereignty, without the least struggle. But he preferred 
the virtuous satisfaction of giving liberty to his countrymen.. 
He declared in public assembly, that the happiness of see- 
ing them once more restored to liberty, was to him a full 
reward for all his services ; that he claimed no pre-emi- 
nence above his equals, but remitted to them absolutely to 
settle a proper form of government. Doria's magnanimity 
put an end to factions, that had long vexed the state ; and 
& form of government was established, with great unanimity, 
the same, that with very little alteration, subsists at present ; 
Doria lived to a great age, beloved and honoured by his 
countrymen ; and without ever making a single step out of 
his rank, as a private citizen, he retained, to his dying hour, 
great influence in the republic. Power, founded on love 
and gratitude, was to him more pleasant than what is found- 
ed on sovereignty. His memory is reverenced by the Go 
noese ; and, in their histories and public monuments, thero 
is bestowed on him the most honourable of all titles— Fa- 
ther of his Country, and Restorer of its Liberty. 

X.— Or, Contentment, 

CONtENfMENT produces, in some measure, all those 

effects which the alchymlst usually ascribes to what he calls 

the philosopher 3 stone; and if it does not bring riches, it 

does the same thing, by banishing the desire of them. If 

it cannot remove the disquietudes arising out of a man's 

mind, body, or fortune, it makes him easy under them. It 

eed, a kindly influence on the soul of a man, in 

H 



06 LESSONS IN [Part I, 

* espect of every being to whom lie stands related. It ex* 
tinguishes all murmur, repining, and ingratitude towards 
that Being, who has allotted him his part to act in this 
world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, and every ten- 
dency to corruption, with regard to the community wherein 
he is placed. It gives sweetness to his conversation, and 
perpetual serenity to all his thoughts. - 

Among the many methods which might be made use of 
for acquiring of this virtue, I shall only mention the two 
following. First of all, a man should always consider how 
much he has more than he wants ; and secondly, how much 
more unhappy he might be than he really is. 

First of all, a man should always consider how much he 
has more than he wants. I arn wonderfully well pleased 
with the reply which Aristippus made to one who condoled 
'him upon the loss of a farm : " Why," said he, " I have 
•three farms still, and you have but one, so that I ought ra- 
ther to be afflicted for you than you for me/' On the con- 
trary, foolish men are more apt to consider what they have 
lost, than what they possess ; and to t\x their eyes upon 
those who are richer than themselves, rather than on those 
who. are under greater difficulties. All the real pleasures 
and conveniences of life lie in a narrow compass ; but it is 
the humour of mankind to be always looking forward, and 
straining after one who has got the start of them in wealth 
and honour. For this reason, as there are none can be pro- 
perly called rich, who have not more than they want ; there 
are few rich men, in any of the politer nations, but among 
the middle sort of people, who keep their wishes within, 
their fortunes, and have more wealth than they know how 
to enjoy. Persons of higher rank live in a kind Gf splendid 
poverty ; and are perpetually wanting, because, instead of 
acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they endeavour to 
outvie one another in shadows and appearances. Men of 
sense have at all times beheld, with a great deal of mirth, 
this silly game that is playing over their heads ; and by con- 
tracting their desires, enjoy all that secret satisfaction whiclj 
others are always in quest of The truth is, this ridiculous 
chace after imaginary pleasure cannot be sufficiently expos- 
ed, as it is the great source of those evils which generally 
"undo a nation. Let a man's estate he what it will, he is * 
poor man if he does not live within it, and naturally sets him- 
self to sale to any one who can give him his price. When 
Jitta^usj after the death of iiis brother, who had left him s* 



Sect. II] READING. §!• 

good estate, was offered a great sum of money by the king 
of Lydia, he thanked him ibr his kindness, hut told him he 
had already more by half than he knew what to do with 
In short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury to po- 
verty; or to give the thought a more agreeable turn, M Con- 
tent is natural wealth," says Socrates ; to which I shall add, 
Luxury is artificial poverty. I shall therefore recommend 
to the consideration of those who are always aiming after 
superfluous and imaginary enjoyments, and will not be at 
the trouble of contracting their desires, an excellent saying 
of Bion the philosopher, namely, " That no man has so 
much care as he who endeavours after the most happiness.*' 

In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much 
more unhappy he might be, than he really is. The former 
consideration took in all those who are sufficiently provided 
with the means to make themselves easy ; this regards such 
as actually lie under some pressure or misfortune. These 
may receive great alleviation from such a comparison as 
the unhappy person may make between himielf and others, 
or between the misfortune which he suffers, and greater 
misfortunes which might have befallen him, 

I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon break- 
ing his leg by a fall from the mainmast, told the standers 
by, it was a great mercy it was not his neck. To which 
since 1 am got into quotations, give me leave to add the 
saying of an old philosopher, who, after having invited some 
of his friends to dine with him, was rufrled by his wife, 
who came into the room in a passion, and threw down tlic 
table that stood before them : " Every one," says he, " has 
his calamity, and he is a happy man that has no great e: 
than this." We find an instance to the same purpose in tl 
life of doctor Hammond, written by bishop Fell. As this 
good man was troubled with a complication of distemper- 
when he had the gout upon him, he used to thank God, 
that it was not the stone ; and when he had the stone, that 
he had not both these distempers on him at the same time. 

I cannot conclude this essay without observing, tlr:. 
there was never any system, besides that of Christianity. 
which would effectually produce in the mind of man the 
virtue I have been hitherto speaking of In order to make 
us contented with our condition, many of the present phi- 
losophers tell us ; that our discontent only hurts ourselves, 
without being able to make any alteration in our circum- 

aces ; others, that whatever evil befalls us is derived to 



88 LESSONS IN [Pars Is 

us by fata! necessity, to which the gods themselves are 
subject ; while others very gravely (ell the man who is- 
miserable, that It is necessary he should he so, to keep up 
the harmony of the universe, and that the scheme of Pro- 
vidence would be troubled and perverted were he othei 
These and the like considerations rather silence than satisfy 
a man. They may show him that his discontent is unrea- 
sonable, hut are byno means sufficient to relieve it. They 
rather give despair than consolation. In a word, a 
might reply to one of these comforters, as .-. 
his friend, who advised him not to grieve for the death of a 
person whom he loved, because Lis grief could not fetch 
him again :' " It is for that very reason/' said the emr 
"■•thai ,o." 

On rary, religion hears a more tender regard to 

human n/iture. It prescribes to every miserable man the 
moans of bettering his condition : nay, it shows him that the 
bearing of ids ahlictions as he ought to do, will naturally 
end in the removal of them. It makes him easy here, be- 
cause it can make him happy hereafter. 

XL — -JVeedlen'ork recommended to the Ladles. . 

fi 1 HAVE a couple of nieces under my direction, who 
so often run gadding abroad, that I do not know where tc 
have them. Their dress, their tea, and their visits take 
up all their time, and they go to bed as tired with doing 
nothing, as I. am after quilting a whole underpetticoat. The 
whole time they are not idle, is while they read your Spec- 
tators ; which being dedicated to the interests of virtue, I 
flesire you to recommend the long neglected art of needle- 
work. Those hours, which, in this age, are thrown away 
in dress, play, visits, and the like, were employed, in my 
time, in writing cut receipts, or working bods, chairs, and 
hanging's for the family. For my part, I have plied my 
needle these mtj years, and by my good will would never 
have it out of my hand. It grieves my heart to see a 
coiiple of proud idle flirts sipping their tea, for a whole af- 
ternoon, in a great room, hung round with the industry of 
their great grandmother. Pray, sir, take the laudable mys- 
tery of embroidery into your serious consideration, and as 
you have a great deal of the virtue of the last age in you, 
pontinue your end' ;o reform the present. 

, . . Jam, <^-o M 



dECT. II] READING. 59 

In obedience to the commands of my venerable corres- 
pondent, I have duly weighed this important subject, and 
promise myself, from the arguments here laid down, that all 
the tine ladies in England will be ready, as soon as their 
mourning is over, to appear covered with the work of their 
own hands. 

What a delightful entertainment must it be to the fair 
sex, whom their native modesty, and the tenderness of men 
towards them, exempts from public business, to pass their 
hours in imitating fruits and rlowers, and transplanting all 
the beauties of nature into their own dress, or raising a new 
creation in their clothes and apartments. How pleasing 
is the amusement of walking among the shades and groves 
planted by themselves, in surveying heroes slain by their 
needles, or little cupids, which they have brought into the 
world without pain. 

This is, methinks, the most proper way wherein a lady 
can show a line genius, and I cannot forbear wishing, that 
several writers of that sex, had chosen rather to apply them- 
selves to tapestry than rhyme. Your pastoral poetesses 
may vent their fancy in rural landscapes, and place despair- 
ing shepherds under silken willows, or drown them in a 
stream of mohair, The heroic writers may work up battles 
as successfully, and inflame them with gold or stain them 
with crimson. Even those who have only a turn to a song 
\>r an epigram, may put many valuable stitches into a purse, 
and crowd a thousand graces into a pair of garters. 

If I may, without breach of good manners, imagine that 
any pretty creature is void of genius, and would perform 
her part herein but very awkwardly, I must nevertheless in- 
sist upon her working, if it be only to keep her out of 
harm's way. 

Another argument for busying good women in works of 
fancy, is, because it takes them off from scandal, the usual 
attendant of tea-tables, and all other inactive scenes of life. 
While they are forming their birds and beasts, their neigh- 
bours will be allowed to be the fathers of their own chil- 
dren ; and Whig and Tory will be but seldom mentioned, 
where the great dispute is whether blue or red is the more 
proper colour. How much greater glory would Sophronia 
do the general, if she would choose rather to work the bat- 
tle of Blenheim in tapestry, than signalize herself, with so 
much vehemence, against those who are Frenchmen in their 
hearts, 

H 2 \ 



90 LESSONS IN [Part I 

A third reason that I shall mention, is the profit that is 
brought to the family where these pretty arts are encou- 
raged. It is manifest, that this way of life not only keeps fair 
ladies from running out into expenses, but it is at the same 
time, an actual improvement. How memorable w r ould that 
matron be, who shall have it inscribed upon her monument, 
41 that she wrote out the whole Bible in tapestry, and diecl in 
a good old age, after having covered three hundred yards 
of wall in the mansion house/' 

These premises being considered, I humbly submit the 
following proposals to all mothers in Great Britain. 

I. That no young virgin whatsoever be allowed to receive 
the addresses of her first lover, but in a suit of her own 
embroidering. 

II. That before every fresh servant, she be obliged to 
appear with a new stomacher at the least. 

III. That no one be actually married, until she hath the 
childbed, pillows, &c. ready stitched, as likewise the mantle 
for the boy quite finished. 

These laws, if I mistake not, would effectually restore the 
decayed art of needlework, and make the virgins of Great 
Britain exceedingly nimble fingered in their business. 

XII— On Pride. 
there be any thing that makes human nature appear 
ridiculous to beings of superior faculties, it must be pride. 
They know so well the vanity of those imaginary perfec- 
tions that swell the heart of man, and of those little super- 
numerary advantages, whether in birth, fortune, or title, 
which one man enjoys above another, that it must certainly 
very much astonish* if it does not very much divert them, 
when they see a mortal puffed up, and valuing himself above 
his neighbours, on any of these accounts, at the same time 
that he is obnoxious to all the common calamities of the 
species. 

To set this thought in its true light, we will fancy, if 
you please, that yonder molehill is inhabited by reasonable 
creatures, and that every pismire (his shape and way of life 
only excepted) is endowed with human passions. How 
should we smile to hear one give us an account of the pedi- 
grees, distinctions, and titles that reign among them 1 Ob- 
serve how the whole swarm divide, and make way for the 
pismire" that passes through them ; you must understand he 
is an emmet of quality, and has better blood in his veins than 



Sect, II.] READING. 9i 

any pismire in the molehill, Don't you see how se^cioii} he 
is of it, how slow he marches forward, how the whole rabble 
of ants keep their distance 1 Here you may observe one 
placed upon a little eminence, and looking down on a long 
row of labourers. He is the richest insect on this side the 
hillock, he has a walk of half a yard in length, and a quar- 
ter of an inch in breadth, he keeps a hundred menial ser- 
vants, and has at least fifteen barleycorns in his granary, 
He is now chiding and beslaving the emmet ihhi stands 
before him, and who, for all that we can discover, is as good 
an emmet as himself. 

But here comes an insect of figure ! Don't you take no- 
tice of a little white straw he carries in his mouth 1 That 
straw, you must understand, he would not part with for the 
longest tract about the molehill : Did you but know what 
he has undergone to purchase it ! See how the ants of all 
qualities and conditions swarm about him. Should this 
straw drop out of his mouth, you would see all this nume* 
rous circle of attendants follow the next that took it up, and 
leave the discarded insect, or run over his back to come at 
its successor. 

If now you have a mind to see all the ladies of the mole- 
hill, observe first the pismire that listens to the emmet on 
her left hand, at the same time that she seems to turn away 
her head from him. He tells this poor insect she is a god- 
dess, that her eyes are brighter than the sun, that life and 
death are at her disposal. She believes him. and gives her- 
self a thousand little airs upon it. Mark the vanity of the 
pismire on your left hand. She can scarce crawl with age ; 
but you must knew she values herself upon her birth ; 
and if you mind, spurns at every one that comes within her 
reach. The little nimble coquette that is running along by the 
side of her, is a wit. She has broke many a pismire's heart. 
Do but observe what a drove of lovers are running after her. 

We will here finish this imaginary scene ; but first of all 
to draw the parallel closer, will suppose, if you please, that 
death comes upon the molehill, in the shape of a cock spar- 
row, who picks up, without distinction, the pismire of 
quality and his flatterers, the pismire of substance and his 
day labourers, the white straw officer and his sycophants, 
with all the goddesses, wits, and beauties of the molehill. 

May we not imagine, that beings of superior natures and 
perfections regard all the instances of pride and vanity, 
among our own species, in the same kind of view, when 



9£ LESSONS IN [Part 1 

they take a survey of those who inhabit the earth, or in 
the language of an ingenious French poet, of those pismires 
that people this heap of dirt, which human vanity has di- 
vided into climates and regions. 

XIII. — Journal of the Life of Alexander Severus. 

ALEXANDER rose early. The first moments of the 
day were consecrated to private devotion : but as he deemed 
the service of mankind the most acceptable worship of the 
gods, the greatest part of his morning hours were employed 
in council, where he discussed public affairs, and determin- 
ed private causes, with a patience and discretion above his 
years. The dryness of business was enlivened by the charms 
of literature ; and a portion of time was always set apart 
for his favourite studies of poetry, history, and philosophy. 
The works of Virgil and Horace, the republics of Plato 
and Cicero, formed his taste, enlarged his understanding, 
and gave him the noblest ideas of man and of government. 
The exercises of the body succeeded to those of the mind ; 
and Alexander, who was tall, active, and robust, surpassed 
most of his equals in the gymnastic arts. Refreshed by the 
use of his bath, and a slight dinner, he resumed, with new 
vigour, the business of the day ; and till the hour of supper, 
the principal meal of the Romans, he was attended by his 
secretaries, with whom he read and answered the multitude 
of letters, memorials, and petitions that must have been ad- 
dressed to the master of the greatest part of the world. 
His table was served with the most frugal simplicity ; and 
whenever he was at liberty to consult his own inclination, 
the company consisted of a few select friends, men of learn- 
ing and virtue. His dress was plain and modest ; his de- 
meanour courteous and affable. At the proper hours, his 
palace was open to ail his subjects ; but the voice of a 
crier was heard, as in the Eleusinlan mysteries, pronounc- 
ing the same salutary admonition : "Let none enter these 
holy walls, unless he is conscious of a pure and innocent 
mind." 

XIV. — Character of Julius Coesar. 

CAESAR was endowed with every great and noble quality 
that could exalt human nature, and give a man the*jascend- 
ant in society ; formed to excel in peace as well as war, 
provident in council, fearless in action, and executing what 
he had resolved, with an amazing celerity ; generous beyond 
measure to his friends, placable to his enemies ; for parts, 



Sect. II.] BEADINO; 93 

beaming, and eloquence, scarce inferior to any man. His 
orations were admired for two qualities, which are sel 
found together, strength and elegance. Cicero ranks him 
among the greatest orators taa e ever bred : And 

Quiutilian says, that be spoke with the seme force with 
which he fought ; and, if he had devoted himself to the bar, 
would have been the only man capable of rivalling Cicero, 

- T 'as he a master only of the politer arts, hut conver- 
sant also with the most abstruse and critical parts of learn- 
ing ; and among other works which he published, addressed 
two books to Cicero, en the analogy of language, or the art 
of speaking and writing correctly. He was a most liberal 
patron of wit and learning, wheresoever they were found ; 
t-rid out of his love of these talents, would readily pardon 
those who had employed them against himself; rightly 
judging, that by making such men his friends, lie should 
draw praises from the same fountain from which he had 
been aspersed. His capital passions were ambition and love 
of pleasure ; which he indulged, in their turns, to the 
greatest excess : Yet the first was always predominant ; to 
which he could easily sacrifice all the charms of the se* 
and draw pleasure even from tods and dangers when 
they ministered to his glory. For he thought Tyranny, as 
Cicero says, the greatest of goddesses ; and had frequently 
in his mouth a verse of Euripides, which expressed the 
image of his soul, That i{ right and justice were ever to be 
violated, they were to be violated for the sake of reigning. 
This was the chief end and purpose of his life ; the scheme 
that he had formed from his early youth ; ..so that, as Cato 
truly declared of him, he came with sobriety and medita- 
tion to the subversion of the republic. He used to say, 
that there were two things necessary to acquire and to 
support power— soldiers and money ; which yet depended 
mutually on each other : with money, therefore, he pro- 
vided soldiers, and with soldiers extorted money ; and was, 
of all men, the most rapacious in plundering both friends 
and foes ; sparing neither prince, nor state, nor temple, 
nor even "private persons, who were known to possess any 
share of treasure. His great abilities would necessarily 
have made him one of the first citizens of Rome f but, dis* 
darning the condition of a subject, he could never rest till 
he had made himself a monarch. In acting this last part, 

isual prudence seemed to fail him; as if the height 
:s"; r ed had turned his head, and made 



94 LESSONS IN [Part I 

liim giddy: for by a vain ostentation 02" Lis power, he 
destroyed the stability of it ; and as men shorten life by 
living too fast, so, by an intemperance of reigning, he 
brought his reign to a violent end. 

XV. — On Mispent Time. 

I WAS yesterday comparing the industry of man with 
that of other creatures ; in which I could not but observe, 
that, notwithstanding* we are obliged by duty to keep our- 
selves in constant employ, after the same manner as inferior 
animals are prompted to it by instinct, we fall very short of 
them in this particular. We are here the more inexcusable, 
because there is a greater variety of business to which yve 
may apply ourselves. Reason opens to us a large field of 
affairs, which other creatures are not capable of. E easts of 
prey, and, I believe, of all other kinds, in their natural state 
of being, divide their time between action and rest. They 
are always at work or asleep. In short, their waking hours 
are wholly taken up in seeking after their food, or in con- 
suming it. The human species only, to the great reproach 
of our natures, are rilled with complaints, that, " the day 
hangs heavy on them," that " they do not know what to do 
with themselves," that " they are at a loss how to. pass away 
their time ;" with many of the like shameful murmurs, 
which we often find in the mouths of those who are styled 
reasonable beings. How monstrous are such expressions, 
among creatures who have the labours of the mind, as weH 
-as those of the body, to furnish them with proper employ- 
ments ; who, besides the business of their proper callings and 
professions, can apply themselves to the duties of religion, 
to meditation, to the reading of useful books, to discourse ; 
in a word, who may exercise themselves in the unbounded 
pursuits of knowledge and virtue, and every hour of their 
lives make themselves wiser or better than they were before. 

After having been taken up for some time in this course 
of thought, I diverted myself with a book, according to my 
usual custom, in order to unbend my mind before I went 
to sleep. The book I made use of on this occasion was 
Lucian, where I amused my thoughts, for about an hour, 
among the dialogues of the dead ; which, in all probability, 
produced the following dream : — 

I was conveyed, methought, into the entrance of the in- 
fernal regions, where I -saw Rhadamanthus, one of the judges 
of the dead, seated on his tribunal. On his left band stood 
the keeper of Erebus, on his right the keeper of Elysium. 



Sect. II] HEADING, 05 

I was told he sat upon women that day, there being several 
of the sex lately arrived, who had not yet their mansions as- 
signed them. I was surprised to hear him ask every one of 
them the same question, namely, what they had heen doing ? 
Upon this question being proposed to the whole assembly, 
they stared one upon another, as not knowing what to an- 
swer. He then interrogated each of them separately. Ma- 
dam, says he to the first of them, you have been upon the 
earth about fifty years : what have you been doing there all 
this while 1 Doing, says she ; really, I do not know what I 
have been doing : I desire I may have time given me to 
recollect. After about half an hour's pause, she told him 
that she had been playing at crimp ; upon which Rhada- 
manthus beckoned to the keeper on his left hand to take her 
into custody. And you, madam, says the judge, that look 
with such a soft and languishing air ; I think you set out 
for this place in your nine and twentieth year, what have you 
been doing all this while ? I had a great deal of business on 
my hands, says she, being taken up the first twelve years 
of my life in dressing a jointed baby, and all the remain- 
ing part of it in reading plays and romances. Very well, 
says he, you have employed your time to good purpose, 
Away with her. The next was a plain country woman : 
Well, mistress, says Rhadamanthus, and what have you been 
doing 1 An't please your worship, says she, I did not live 
quite forty years ; and in that time brought my husband 
.even daughters, made him nine thousand cheeses, and left 
my youngest daughter with him, to look after his house in 
my absence ; and who, I may venture to say, is as pretty a 
housewife as any in the country. Rhadamanthus smiled at 
the simplicity of the good woman, and ordered the keeper 
of Elysium to take her into his care. And you, fair lady, 
says he, what have you been doing these five and thirty 
years'? I have been doing no hurt, I assure you, sir, said 
she. That is well, said he : but what good have you been 
doing 1 The lady was in great confusion at this question ; 
and not knowing what to answer, the two keepers leaped out 
to seize her -at the same time ; the one took her by the hand 
to convey her to Elysium, the other caught hold of her to 
carry her away to Erebus. But Rhadamanthus observing 
an ingenious modesty in her countenance and behaviour,, 
bid them both let her loose, and set her aside for re-exami- 
nation when he was more at leisure. An old woman, of a 
proud anjl spur look, presented herself Dext#i the bar; an4 



$6 LESSONS IN - [Part I 

being asked what she had been doing ? Truly, said she, I 
lived threescore and ten ye^irs in a very wicked world, i 
was so angry at the behaviour of a parcel of young girts, 
that I passed most of my last years in condemning the follies 
of the times. I was every day blaming the silly conduct of 
people about me, in order to deter those 1 conversed with 
from falling into the like errors and miscarriages. Very 
well, says Rhadamanthus, but did you keep the same watch- 
ful eye over your own actions 1 Why, truly, said she, I was 
so taken up with publishing the faults of others, that I had 
no time to consider my own. Madam, says Rhadamanthus, 
be pleased to life off to the left, and make room for the 
venerable matron that stands behind you. Old gentlewo- 
man, says he, I think you are fourscore : you have heard 
the question — What have you been doing so long in the 
world ? Ah, sir, said she, I have been doing what I should 
not hnve done ; but i had made a firm resolution to have 
changed my life, if I had not been snatched eff by an un- 
timely end. Madam, says -he, you will please to follow 
your leader : an:] spying another of the same age, interro- 
gated her in the same form. To which the matron replied, 
I have been the wife of a husband who was as dear to me in 
his old age as in his youth. I have been a mother, and very 
happy in my children, whom I endeavoured to bring up in 
every thing that is good. My eldest sen is blessed by the 
poor, and beloved by every one that knows him, I lived 
within my own family, and left it much more wealthy than 
I found it. Rhadamanthus, who knew the value of the old 
lady, smiled upon her in such a manner, that the keeper of 
Elysium, who knew his hod out his hand to her, 

He no sooner touched her, but her wrinkles vanished, her 
eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with blushes, and she ap- 
peared in full bloom and beauty. A young woman, observ- 
ing that this officer, who conducted the happy to Elysium,, 
was so great a beautifier, long'ed to be in his hands : so that 
pressing through the crowd, she was the next that appeared 
at the bar : and being asked what she had been doing the 
five and twenty years that she had passed in the world 1 I 
have endeavoured, says she, ever since I came to years of 
discretion, to make myself lovely, and gain admirers. In 
order to it, I passed my time in bottling up May-dew, in- 
venting whitewashes, mixing colours, cutting out patches, 
consulting my glass, suiting my complexion,— Rhadamam 
thus, without hearing her out, gave the sign to take her offr 



Sect. IL] READING, $% 

Upon the approach of the keeper of Erebus, her colon* 
faded, her face was puckered* up with wrinkles, and her 
whole person lost in deformity. 

I was then surprised with the distant sound of a whofe 
troop of females, that came forward, laughing, singing, 
and dancing. I was very desirous to know the reception 
they would meet with, and, withal, was very apprehen- 
sive that Rhadamanthus would spoil their mirth ; hut at 
their nearer approach, the noise grew so very great that it 
awakened me. 

I lay some time reflecting in myself on the oddness of 
this dream ; and could not forbear asking my own heart, 
what I was doing 1 I answered myself, that I was writing 
Guardians. If my readers make as good a use of this work 
as I design they should, I hope it will never be imputed 
to me as a work that is vain and unprofitable. 

I shall conclude this paper with recommending to them 
the same short self-examination. If every one of them 
frequently lays his hand upon his heart, and considers 
what he is doing, it will check him in all the idle, or what 
is worse, the vicious moments of his life ; lift up his mind 
when it is running on in a series of indifferent actions, and 
encourage him when he is engaged in those which are vir- 
tuous and laudable. In' a word, it will very much alleviate 
that guilt, which the best of men have reason to acknow- 
ledge in their daily confessions, of " leaving undone those 
things which they ought to have done, and of doing those 
things which they ought not to have done." 
XVI. — Character of Francis I. 

FRANCIS died at Rambouiilet, on the last day of 
March, in the fifty-third year of his age, and the thirty- 
third of his reign. During twenty-eight years of that time, 
an avowed rivalsjilp subsisted between him and the empe- 
ror ; which involved, not only their own dominions, but the 
greater part of Europe, in wars, prosecuted with more vio- 
lent animosity, and drawn out to a greater length, than had 
been known in any former period. Many circumstances 
contributed to both. Their animosity was founded in op- 
position of interests, heightened by personal emulation, and 
exasperated, not only by mutual injuries, but by recipro- 
cal insults. At the same time, whatever advantage one 
seemed to possess towards gaining the ascendant, was won- 
derfully balanced by some favourable circumstances peculiar 
to the other. The emperor's dominions were of great ex- 



& LESSONS Itf [Part I. 

tent ; the French king's lay more compact : Francis go- 
verned his kingdom with absolute power ; that of Charles 
was limited, hut he supplied the want of authority by ad- 
dress : the troops of the former, were more impetuous and 
enterprising ; those of the latter, better disciplined and 
more patient of fatigue. 

The talents and abilities of the two monarchs were as dif- 
ferent as the advantages which they possessed, and contri- 
buted no less to prolong the contest between them. Fran- 
cis took his resolutions suddenly ; prosecuted them at first 
with warmth ; and pushed them into execution with a most 
adventurous courage ; but, being destitute of the perseve- 
rance necessary to surmount difficulties, he often abandoned 
his designs, or relaxed the vigour of pursuit, from impa- 
tience, and sometimes from levity. Charles deliberated 
Jong, and determined with coolness ; but having once fixed 
his plan, he adhered to it with inflexible obstinacy ; and 
neither danger nor discouragement could turn him aside 
from the execution of it. 

The success of their enterprises was as different as their 
characters, and was uniformly influenced by them. Fran- 
cis, by his impetuous activity, often disconcerted the empe- 
ror's best laid schemes ; Charles, by a more calm, but stea- 
dy prosecution of his designs, checked the rapidity of his 
rival's career, and baffled or repulsed his most vigorous ef- 
forts. The former, at the opening of a war or a campaign, 
broke in upon his enemy with the violence of a torrent, and 
carried all before him ; the latter, waiting until he saw the 
force of his rival begin to abate, recovered, in the end, not 
only all that he had lost, but made new acquisitions. Few 
of the French monarch's attempts towards conquest, what- 
ever promising aspect they might wear at first, were con- 
ducted to a happy issue ; many of the emperor's enterprises, 
even after they appeared desperate and impracticable, ter- 
minated in the most prosperous manner. 

The degree, however, of their comparative mer& and re- 
putation, has not been fixed, either by strict scrutiny into their 
abilities for government, or by an impartial consideration of 
the greatness and success of their undertakings ; and Fran- 
cis is one of those monarchs, who occupy a higher rank in. 
the temple of fame, than either their talents or performances 
entitle them to hold. This pre-eminence he owed to many 
different circumstances. The superiority which Charles ac- 
quired by the victory of Payia, and which, from that periods. 



Sect. II.J READING. 96. 

he preserved through the remainder of his reign, was so 
manifest, that Francis' struggle against his exorbitant and 
growing dominion, was viewed by most of the other powers, 
not only with that partiality which naturally arises from 
those who gallantly maintain an unequal contest, but with 
the f ,vour due to One who was resisting a common enemy, 
and endeavouring to set bounds to a monarch equally for- 
midable to them all. The characters of princes, too. es- 
pecially among their contemporaries, depend, not only upon 
their talents for government, but upon their qualities as 
men. Francis, notwithstanding the many errors conspicu- 
ous in his foreign policy and domestic administration, was, 
nevertheless, humane, beneficent, generous. He possessed 
dignity without pride, affability tree from meanness, and 
courtesy exempt from deceit. All Who had access to know 
him, and no man of merit was ever denied that privilege, 
respected and loved him. Captivated with his personal 
qualities, his subjects forgot his defects, as a monarch ; and 
admiring him, as the most accomplished and amiable gen- 
tleman of his dominions, they hardly murmured at acts of 
maladministration, which in a prince of less engaging dis- 
position, would have been deemed unpardonable. 

This admiration, however, must have been temporary 
only, and would have died away with the courtiers who 
bestowed it ; the illusion arising from his private virtues 
must have ceased, and posterity would have judged of hi£ 
public conduct with its usual impartiality : but another cir- 
cumstance prevented this ; and bis name hath been trans- 
mitted to posterity with increasing reputation. Science 
and the arts had, at that time, made little progress in 
France. They were just beginning to advance beyond the 
limits of Italy, where they had revived, and which had 
hitherto been their only seat. Francis took them immedi- 
ately under his protection, and vied with Leo himself, in 
the zeal and muniricence, with which he encouraged them. 
He invited learned men to his court, he conversed with 
them familiarly, he employed them in business, he raised 
them to offices of dignity, and honoured them with his con- 
fidence. That race of men, not more prone to complain 
when denied the respect to which they fancy themselves en- 
titled, than apt to be pleased when treated with the distinc- 
tion -which they consider as their due, thought they could not 
exceed in gratitude to such a benefactor, and strained their 
invention, and employed all their ingenuity in panegyrk. 



100 LESSONS IN [Part Y. 

Succeeding authors, warmed with their descriptions of 
Francis' bounty, adopted their encomiums, and refined upon 
them. The appellation of Father of Letters, bestowed 
upon Francis, had rendered his memory sacred among his- 
torians ; and they seem to have regarded it as a sort of im- 
piety, to uncover his Infirmities, or to point out his depots. 
Thus Francis, notwithstanding his inferior abilities and want 
cf success, hath more than equalled the fame of Charles. 
The virtues which he possessed as a man, have entitled 
him to greater admiration and praise, than have been be- 
stowed upon the extensive genius, and fortunate arts, of a 
more capable, but less amiable rival. 

XVII — The Slipper and Grace. 

A SHOE coming loose from the forefoot of the (hill- 
horse, at the beginning of the accent of mount Taurira, the 
postillion dismounted, twisted the shoe off, and put it in his 
pocket. As the ascent was of five or six miles, and that 
horse our main dependence, I made a point of having the 
shoe fastened on again as well as we could ; but the postil- 
lion had thrown away the nails, and the hammer in the 
chaise box being of no great use without them, I submitted 
to go on. 

lie had not mounted half a mile higher, when coming to 
a flinty piece of road, the poor devil lost a second slice, and 
from off his other forefoot. I then got out of the chaise 
in good earnest ; and seeing a house about a quarter of a 
mile to the left hand, with a good deal ado, I prevailed upon 
the postillion to turn up to it. The look of the house, and 
every thing about it, as we drew nearer, soon reconciled me 
to the disaster. It was a little farm house, surrounded with 
about twenty acres of vineyard, about as much corn ; and 
close to the house, on one side, was a potagerie of an acre 
and a half, full of every thing which could make plenty in 
a French peasant's house ; and on the other side was a 
little wood, which furnished wherewithal to dress it. It 
was about eight in the evening when I got to the house ; so 
I left the postillion to manage his point as he could ; and, 
for mine, I walked directly into the house. 

The family consisted of an old gray-headed man and his 
wife, with ii\ r e or six sons and sons-in-law, and their several 
wives, and a joyous genealogy out of them. 

They were all sitting down together to their lentil-soup : 
a lar^e wheaten loaf was in the middle of the table ; and a 



Sect. II] READING. 10! 

flagon of wine at each end of it promised joy througn the 
stages of the repast — it was a feast of love. 

The old man rose up to meet me, and with a respectful 
cordiality would have me sit down at the table. My heart 
was sat down the moment I entered the room ; so I sat 
down at once, like a son of the family ; and, to invest my- 
self in the character as speedily as I could, I instantly bor- 
rowed the old man's knife, and taking up the loaf cut my- 
self a hearty luncheon ; and, as I did it, I saw a testimony 
in every eye, not only of an honest welcome, but of a wel- 
come mixed with thanks, that I had not seemed to doubt it. 

Was it this, or tell me, Nature, what else was it that 
made this morsel so sweet — and to what magic I owe it 
that the draught I took of their flagon was so delicious 
with it, that it remains upon my palate to this hour 7 

If the supper was to my taste, the grace which followed 
was much more so. 

When supper was over, the old man gave a knock upon 
the table with the haft of his knife, to bid them prepare for 
the dance. The moment the signal was given, the women 
and girls ran all together into the back apartments to tie up 
their hair, and the young men to the door to wash their 
faces, and change their sabots, (wooden shoes) and in three 
minutes every soul was ready upon a little esplanade be- 
fore the house to begin. The old man and his wife came 
out last, and, placing me betwixt them, sat down upon a 
sofa of turf by the door. 

The old man had, some fifty years ago, been no mean 
performer upon the vielle ; and, at the age he was then 
of, touched it well enough for the purpose. His wife sung 
now and then a little to the tune, then intermitted, and 
joined her old man again, as their children and grand-chil- 
dren danced before them. 

It was not till the middle of the second dance, when for 
some pauses in the movement, wherein they all seemed to 
look up, I fancied I could distinguish an elevation of spirit, 
different from that which is the cause or the effect of sim- 
ple jollity. In a word, I thought I beheld religion mixing 
in the dance ; but, as I had never seen her so engaged, I 
should have looked upon it now as one of the illusions of an 
imagination which is eternally misleading me, had not the 
old man, as soon as the dance ended, said that this was 
their constant way : and that, all his life long, he made it a 
rule., after supper was over, to call out his family to dance 
12 



102 LESSONS IN [Part t 

and rejoice ; believing, he said, that a cheerful and content- 
ed mind was the best sort of thanks to heaven that an illite- 
rate peasant could pay.— Or learned prelate either, said 1. 

XVIII— Rustic Felicity. 
MANY are the silent pleasures of the honest peasant, 
who rises cheerfully to his labour. — Look into his dwelling 
—-where the scene of every man's happiness chiefly lies ;— 
he has the same domestic endearments — as much joy and 
comfort in his children, and as flattering hopes of their do- 
ing well- — to enliven his hours and gladden his heart, as 
you would conceive in the most affluent station. — And I 
make no doubt, in general, but ii the true account of his 
joys and sufferings were to be balanced with those of his 
betters — that the upshot would prove to be little more than 
this ;_ that the rich man had the more meat — but the poor 
man the better stomach ; — -the one had more luxury — more 
able physicians to attend and set him to rights : — the other, 
more health and soundness in his bones, and less occasion 
for their help ; that, after these two articles betwixt them 
were balanced—in all other things they stood upon a level 
—that the sun shines as warm — the air blows as fresh, and 
the earth breathes as fragrant upon the one as the other ;-— 
and they have an equal share in all the beauties and real 
beneijts of nature. 

XIX.— House of Mourning, 

LET us go into the house of mourning, made so by such 
afflictions as have been brought in merely by the common 
cross accidents and disasters to which our condition is ex- 
posed — where, perhaps, the aged parents sit broken-hearted^, 
pierced to their souls, with the folly and indiscretion of a 
thankless child — the child of their prayers, in whom all 
their hopes and expectations centered : — Perhaps, a more 
affecting scene— a virtuous family lying pinched with want, 
where the unfortunate support of it, having long struggled 
with a train of misfortunes, and bravely fought up against 
them, is now piteously borne down at the last — overwhelmed 
with a cruel blow, which no forecast or frugality could 
have prevented. O God ! look upon his afflictions. Be- 
hold him distracted with many sorrows, surrounded with the 
tender pledges of his love ; and the partner of his cares — 
without bread to give them ; unable from the remembrance 
<of better days to dig ; — to beg, ashamed. 



Sect. IL] READINQ, fi>3 

When we enter into the house of mourning ; such as 
this — it is impossible to insult the unfortunate, even with an 
improper look. — Under whatever levity and dissipation of 
heart such objects catch our eyes— they catch likewise our 
attentions, collect and call home our scattered thoughts, and 
exercise them with wisdom. A transient scene of distress, 
such as is here sketched, how soon does it furnish materials 
to set the mind at work ! How necessarily does it engage 
it to the consideration of the miseries and misfortunes, the 
dangers and calamities, to which the life of man is subject I 
By holding up such a glass before it, it forces the mind to 
see and reflect upon the vanity — the perishing condition, 
and uncertain tenure of every thing in this world. From re- 
flections of this serious cast, how insensibly do the thoughts 
carry us farther!- — and, from considering what we are, what 
kind of world we live in, and what evils befall us in ii > 
how naturally do they set us to look forward at what possi- 
bly we shall be ; — -for what kind of world we are intended — 
what evils may befall us there— -and what* provisions we 
should make against them here, whilst we have time and 
opportunity! — If these lessons are so inseparable from the 
house of mourning here supposed — we shall rind it a still 
more instructive school of wisdom, when we take a view of 
the place in that aiTocting light in which the wise man seems 
to confine it in the tent ; — -in which by the house of mourn- 
ing, I believe he means that particular scene of sorrow, 
where there is lamentation and mourning for the dead. 
Turn in hither, I beseech you, for a moment. Behold a 
dead man ready to be carried out, the only son of his mo- 
ther, and she a widow. Perhaps a still more aiiect-ng spec- 
tacle, a kind and indulgent father of a numerous family lies 
breathless — snatched away in the strength of his age — torn, 
in an evil hour, from his children, and the bosom of a dis- 
consolate wife. Behold much people of the city gathered 
together to mix their tears, with settled sorrow in their 
looks, going heavily along to the house of mourning, to 
perform that last melancholy office, which, when the dehi 
of nature is paid, we are called upon to pay each other, 
If this sad occasion, which leads him there, has not done it 
already, take notice to what a serious and devout frame of 
mind every man is reduced, the moment he enters this gate 
of affliction. — The busy and fluttering spirits which, in the 
house of mirth, were wont to transport him from one divert- 
ing object to another — -see how they are fallen I how peace*- 



104 LESSONS IN [Part j. 

ably they arc laid ! In this gloomy mansion, full of shades 
and uncomfortable damps to seize the soul — see, the light 
and easy heart, which never knew what it was to think be- 
fore, how pensive it is now, how r soft, how T susceptible, how- 
full of religious impressions, how deep it is smitten with a 
sense, and with a love of virtue. — Could we, in this crisis, 
whilst this empire of reason and religion lasts, and the heart 
is thus exercised with wisdom, and busied with heavenly 
jcontemplations — -could we see it naked as it is — stripped 
of its passions, unspotted by the world, and regardless of its 
pleasures — we might then safely rest our cause upon this 
single evidence, and appeal to tlie most sensual, whether 
Solomon has not made a just determination here in favour 
of the house of mourning? Not for its own sake, but as it 
is fruitful in virtue, and becomes the occasion of so much 
good. Without this end, sorrow, I own, has no use but to 
shorten a man's days — nor can gravity, with all its studied 
solemnity of look and carriage, serve any end but to make 
one half of the world merry, and impose upon the other. 



SECTION III. 

I,~ — The Honour and Mvaniage of a constant Adherence to 

Truth 
PETRARCH, a celebrated Italian poet, who flourished 
about four hundred years ago, recommended himself to the 
confidence and affection of Cardinal Colonna, in whose 
family he resided, by his candour and strict regard to truth, 
A violent quarrel occurred in the household of this noble- 
man; which was carried so far, that recourse w T as had to 
arms. The cardinal wished to know the foundation of this 
affair ; and that he might be able to decide with justice, he 
assembled all his people, and obliged them to bind them- 
selves, by a most solemn oath on the gospels to declare the 
whole truth. Every one, without exception, submitted to 
this determination ; even the Bishop of Luna, brother to 
the Cardinal, w r as not excused. Petrarch, in his turn, pre- 
senting himself to take the oath, the Cardinal closed the 
book, and said, As to you, Petrarch, your word is sufficient 

II. — Impertinence in Discourse. 
THIS kind of impertinence is a habit of talking much 
without thinking. 



Sect. III.] READING. 105 

A man who has this distemper in his tongue shall enter- 
tain yon, though he never saw you before, with a long story 
in praise of his own wife ; give you the particulars of last 
night's dream, or the description of a feast he has been 
at, without letting a single dish escape him. When he is 
thus entered into coiiversation, he grows very wise — des- 
cants upon the corruption of the times, and the degeneracy 
of the age we live in ; from which, as his transitions are 
somewhat sudden, he falls upon the price of corn, and the 
number of strangers that are in town. He undertakes to 
prove, that it is better putting to sea in summer than m 
winter, and that rain is necessary to produce a good crop 
of corn ; telling you in the same breath, that he intends to 
plough up such a part of his estate next year, that the 
times are hard, and that a man has much ado to get through 
the world. His whole discourse is nothing but hurry and 
incoherence. He acquaints you, that Demippus had the 
largest torch at the feast of Ceres ; asks you if you remem- 
ber how many pillars are 'm the music theatre ; tells you 
that he took physic yesterday ; and desires to know what 
day of the month it is. If you have patience to hear him, 
he will inform you what festivals are kept in August, what 
in October, and what in December. 

When you see such a fellow as this coming towards you, 
run for your life. A man had much better be visited by a 
fever ; so painful is it to be fastened upon by one of this 
make, who takes it for granted that you have nothing else 
to do, but to give him a hearing. 

III.— Character of Addison, as a Writer. 

AS a describer of life and manners, Mr. Addison must 
be allowed to stand perhaps the first in the first rank. His 
humour is peculiar to himself; and is so happily diffused, as 
to give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily 
occurrences. He never oversteps the modesty of nature ; nor 
raises merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His 
figures neither divert by distortion, nor amaze by aggra- 
vation. He copies life with so much fidelity,' that he can 
hardly be said to invent ; yet his exhibitions have an air 
so much original, that it is difficult to suppose them not 
merely the product of imagination. 

As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed, 
His religion has nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious ; 
he appears neither weakly credulous, nor wantonly scepti- 



iOft LESSONS IN [Part J. 

cal ; his morality is neither dangerously lax, nor implacably 
rigid. All the enchantments of fancy, and all the cogency 
pf arguments, are employed to recommend to the readet 
his real interest, the care of pleasing the Author of his be- 
ing. Truth is shown sometimes as the phantom of a vision,- 
sometimes appears half veiled in an allegory, sometimes 
attracts regard in the robes of fancy, and sometimes steps 
forth in the confidence of reason. She wears a thousand 
dresses, and fn all is pleasing. 

His prose is the model of the middle style ; on grave 
subjects not formal, on light occasions not grovelling ; pure 
without scrupulosity, and exact without apparent elabo- 
ration ; always equable and always easy, without glowing 
words or pointed sentences. His page is always luminous, 
but never blazes in unexpected splendor. It seems to have 
been his principal endeavour to avoid all harshness and 
severity of diction; he is therefore sometimes verbose in 
his transitions and connexions, and sometimes descends too 
much to the language of conversation ; yet if his language 
had been less idiomatical, it mi^ht have lost somewhat of 
its genuine Anglicism. What he attempted he performed ; 
he is never feeble, and he did not wish to be energetic; he 
is never rapid, and he never stagnates. His sentences have 
neither studied amplitude nor affected brevity ; his periods, 
though not diligently rounded, are voluble and easy. Who- 
ever wishes to attain an Engh h style, familiar but not 
coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days 
and nights to the volumes of Addison. 

TV, ^-Pleasure and Pain. 

THERE were two families, which, from the beginning of 
the world, were as opposite to each other as light and dark- 
ness. The one of them lived in heaven, and the other in 
hell. The youngest descendant of the first family was 
Pleasure, who was the daughter of Happiness, who was 
the child of Virtue, who was the offspring of the gods. 
These, as I said before, had their habitation in heaven. 
The youngest of the opposite family was Pain, who was the 
son of Misery, who was the child of Vice, who was the off- 
spring of the Furies. The habitation of this race of beings 
was in hell. 

The middle station of nature between these two opposite 
extremes was the earth, which was inhabited by creatures of 
a middle kind ; neither so virtuous as the one, nor so vicious 



Sect, III] READING. 107 

as the other, but partaking- of the good and bad qualities of 
these two c*?oosite families. — Jupiter, considering that this 
species, commonly called max, was too virtuous to be mis- 
erable, and too vicious to be happy, that he might make a 
distinction between the good and the bad, ordered the two 
youngest of the above-mentioned families (Pleasure, who 
was the daughter of Happiness, and Pain, who was the son 
of Misery) to meet one another upon this part of nature, 
which lay in the half-way between them, having promised to 
settle it upon them both, provided they could agree upon 
the division of it, so as to share mankind between them. 

Pleasure and Pain were no sooner met in their new habi- 
tation, but they immediately agreed upon this point, that 
Pleasure should take possession of the virtuous, and Pain 
of the vicious part of that species which was given up to 
them. But, upon examining to which of them any in di- 
vidual they met with belonged, they found each of them 
had a right to him ; for that, contrary to what they had seen 
in their old places of residence, there was no person so vi- 
cious who had not some good in him. nor any person so vir- 
tuous who had not in him some evil. The truth of it is, 
they generally found upon search, that in the most vicious 
man Pleasure might lay a claim to a hundredth part, and 
that in the most virtuous man Pain might come in for at 
least two thirds. This they saw would occasion endless 
disputes between them, unless they could come to some 
accommodation. To this end, there was a marriage pro- 
posed between them, and at length concluded. Kence it 
is, that we find Pleasure and Pain are such constant yoke* 
fellows, and that they either make their visits together, or 
are never far asunder. If Pain comes into a heart, he is 
quickly followed by Pleasure ; and if Pleasure enters, you 
may be sure Pain is not far oh\ 

But notwithstanding this marriage was very convenient 
for the two parties, it did not seem to answer the intention 
of Jupiter in sending them among mankind. To remedy, 
therefore, this inconvenience, it was stipulated between them 
by article, and confirmed by the consent of each family, 
that, notwithstanding they here possessed the species indif- 
ferently, upon the death of every single person, if he was 
found to have in him a certain proportion of evil, he should 
be despatched into the infernal regions by a passport from. 
Pain, there to dwell with Misery, Vice, and the Furies ; or 
on tJbc contrary, if lie had in him a certain proportion of 



*03 LESSONS IN [Par*-!. 

good, he should be despatched into heaven, by a passport 
from Pleasure, there to dwell with happiness, Virtue, and 
the Gods. 

V. — Sir Roger dc Coverly's Family, 

HAVING often received an invitation from my friend 
Sir Roger de Coverjy, to pass away a month with him in 
the country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am 
settled with him for some time at his country-house, where 
I intend to form several of my ensuing speculations. Sir 
Eoger, who is very well acquainted with; my humour, lefs 
me rise and go to bed when I please, dine at his own table 
or in my ch.. \ ruber, as I think fit, sit still and say nothing, 
without bidding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the 
country come to see him, he only sjhpws me at a distance. 
As I have been walking in the fields. I have observed them 
stealing a sight of me over a hedge, and have heard the 
knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that I 
hated to be stared at. 

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it 
consists of sober and steady persons ; for as the knight is 
the best master in the world, he seldom changes his ser- 
vants ; and as he is beloved by all about him, his servants 
never care for leaving him ; by this means his domestics are 
all in years and grown old with their master. You would 
take his valet de chambre for his brother ; his brother is gray 
headed, his groom is one of the gravest men I have ever 
seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy counsellor. 
You see the goodness of the master even in. the old house 
dog, and in a gray pad that is kept in the stable with great 
care end tenderness, out of regard to his past services, 
though he has been useless for several years. 

I could not but observe, with a great dedl of pleasure, the 
joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient do- 
mestics, upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some 
of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old 
master ; every one of them pressed forward to do something 
for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employ- 
ed. At the same time, the good old knight, with the mix- 
ture of the father and the master of the family temper d 
the inquiries after his own affairs with several kind ques« 
tions relating to themselves. 

This humanity and good nature engages every body to 
him; so that when he is pleasant upon any of .them, all hi* 



fee*, lit] READING .109 

family are in good humour, and none so much as the person 
whom he diverts himself with ; en the contrary, if he coughs. 
or betrays any infirmity of old age. it is easy tor a stander by 
to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants. 

My worthy friend has put me under the particular care 
of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the 
rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing 
me, because they have often heard their master talk of me 

his particular friend. 

chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself 
in the woods or in the fields, is a very venerable man, who 
is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house in the na- 

e of chaplain, above thirty years. This gentleman is a 
person of good sense and some learning, of a very regular 
life and obliging conversation ; he heartily loves Sir Roger, 
and knows that he is very much in the old knight's esteem ; 

hat he lives in the family rather as a relation than a de- 
pendant. 

I have observed, in several of my papers, that my friend 
Sir Koger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of a 
humorist ; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, 
as if were, tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes 
them particularly his, and distinguishes them from those 
oi other men. This cast of mind, a- it is generally very in- 
nc - self, so it renders his conversation highly agree- 

able, and more delightful than the same degree of sense and 
virtue would appear in their common and ordinary colours. 
As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how I 

! the good man whom I have just now mentioned ; — - 
hout staying for my answer, told me, that he was 

id of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own ta- 
ble ; for Which reason he desired a particular friend of his at 
the nriii o rind him out a clergyman, rather of plain 

m much learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a 
sc liable temper : and. if possible, a man who understood a 
litu . on. — My friend, says Sir Roger, found mo 

out this gentleman; who, besides the endowments required 
of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does not 
show it. I have given him the parsonage of the parish ; and 
because I know his value, have settled upon him a good an- 
r lity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he was 

:er in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has 
new been with me thirty years ; and though he does not. 
&flow I have taken notice of it, has never, in ail that timej 
K 



110 LESSONS IN [Part! 

asked any thing of me for himself, though he is every day 
soliciting me for something, in behalf of one or other of my 
tenants, his parishioners. There has net been a lawsuit in 
the parish since he has lived among them. If any dispute 
arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision ; if they 
do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never hap- 
pened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At 
his first settling with me, I made him a present of all the 
,good sermons which have been printed in English ; and 
only begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce 
one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested 
them into such a series, that they follow one another natu- 
rally, and make a continued system of practical divinity. 

As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman 
*we were talking of came up to us ; and, upon the knight's 
•asking him who preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday 
night) told us the Bishop of St. Asaph, in the morning, and 
Dr. South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of 
preachers for the whole year ; where I saw, with a great 
deal of pleasure, Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, 
Br. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, with several living authors, who 
have published discourses of practical divinity. I no sooner 
_3aw this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much ap- 
proved of my friend's insisting upon the qualifications of a 
good aspect, and a clear voice ; for I was so charmed with 
the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as with 
the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never passed 
any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after 
this manner, is like the composition of a poet, in the mouth 
of a graceful act or . 

VI. — The Folly of Inconsistent Expectations. 
THIS world may be considered as a great mart of com* 
merce, where fortune exposes to our view various commo- 
dities ; riches, ease, tranquillity; fame, integrity, knowledge. 
!Every thing is marked at a settled price. Our time, our 
labour, our ingenuity, is so much ready money, which we 
are to lay out to the best advantage. Examine, compare, 
choose, reject ; but stand to your own judgment ; and do 
not, like children, when you have purchased one thing, re- 
pine that you do not possess another, which you did not 
purchase. Such is the force of well regalated industry, that 
a steady and vigorous exertion of our faculties, directed to 
Qna Qm\ t will generally easure success. Would you, for in? 



Sect. III.] READING. Hi 

stance, be rich ? Do you think that single point worth the 
sacrificing every thing else too? You may then he rich. 
Thousands have become so from the lowest beginnings, by 
toil, and patient diligence, and attention to the minutest 
articles of expense and profit. But you must give up the 
pleasures of leisure, of a vacant mind, of a free unsuspicious 
temper. If you preserve your integrity, it must be a coarse 
spun and vulgar honesty. Those high and lofty notions of 
morals, which you brought with you from the schools, must 
bo considerably lowered, and mixed with the baser alloy of 
a jealous and worldly minded prudence. You must learn 
to do hard, if not unjust things : and for the nice embar- 
rassments of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is necessary 
for you to get rid of them as fast as possible. You must 
shut your heart against the muses, and be content to Iced 

if understanding with plain household truths. In short, 
you must not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your 
taste, or refine your sentiments ; but must keep on in one 
beaten track, without turning aside cither to the right hand 
or to the leit — " But I cannot submit to drudgery like this 
— I ke] a spirit above it.*' It is well — be above it thenj 
only da not repine that vou are not rich. 

Qowledge the pearl of price ? That, too, may be pur- 
chased — by steady application, and long solitary hours of 
study and reflection. — Bestow these and you shall be learn- 
ed. " But/' says the man of letters, " what a hardship it 
is, that many an illiterate fellow, who cannot construe the 
motto of the arms of his coach, shall raise a fortune and 
make a figure, while I have little more than the common 
conveniences cf hie !'' Was it in order to raise a fortune, 
that you consumed the sprightly hours of youth in study 
and retirement 1 Was it to be rich 5 that you grew pale over 
the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness from the 
Greek and Itoman spring 1 You have then mistaken your 
path, and ill employed your industry. " What reward 
have I then for all my labours VJ What reward ! a largo 
comprehensive soul, well purged from vulgar fears, and 
perturbations, and prejudices, able to comprehend and in- 
terpret the works of man — of God. A rich, flourishing, 
cultivated mind, pregnant with inexhaustible stores cf en- 
tertainment and reflection. A perpetual spring of fresh 
ideas, and the conscious dignity of superior intelligence. — - 
Good heaven! and what reward can you ask besides ? 

" But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Pre- 



112 LESSONS IN" [Part 1 

vidence, that such a one, who is a mean dirty fellow, should 
have amassed wealth enough to "buy half a nation f* Not 
in the least. He made himself a mean dirty fellow fur that 
very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his liber- 
ty, for it ; and will you envy his bargain ? Will you hang 
your head and blush in his presence, because he outbhines 
you in equipage and show ? Lift up your brow, with a noble 
confidence, and say to -yourself, " I have not these things, 
it is true ; but it is because I have not sought, because I 
have not desired them ; it is because I possess something 
belter : I have chosen my lot ; I am content and satisfied. " 

You are a modest man — you love quiet and independence, 
and have a delicacy and reserve in your temper, which 
renders it impossible for you to elbow your way in the world, 
and be the herald of your own merits. Be content, then, 
with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimate 
friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate 
ingemiotis spirit ; but resign the splendid distinctions of the 
world to those who can better scramble for them. 

The man whose tender sensibility of conscience and strict 
regard to the rules of morality, makes him scrupulous and 
fearful of offending, is often heard to complain of the disad- 
vantages he lies under in every path of honour and profit. 
" Could I but ^Qi over some nice points, and conform to 
the practice and opinion of those about me, I might stand as 
fair a chance as others for dignities and preferment." And 
why can you not ? What hinders you from discarding this 
'troublesome scrupulosity of yours which stands so grievous- 
ly in your way I If it be a small thing to enjoy a healthful 
mind, sound at the very core, that does not shrink from the 
keenest inspection ; inward freedom from remorse and per- 
turbation, unsullied whiteness and simplicity of manners: 
a genuine integrity. 

Pure in the last recesses of the mind : 
If you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for 
what you resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a 
slave-merchant, a director — or what you please. 

VII. — Description of the Vale of Keszvick, in Cumberland. 

THIS delightful vale is thus elegantly described by the 
late ingenious Dr. Brown, in a letter to a friend. 

In my way to the north, from Hagley, I passed through 
Dovedale ; and to say the truth, was disappointed in it, 



Sect. III.] READING, ty.3 

When I came to Buxton, I visited another or two of their 
romantic scenes ; but these are inferior to Dovedale. They 
are all but poor miniatures of Keswick, which exceeds them 
more in grandeur than you can imagine ; and more, if pos- 
sible, in beauty than in grandeur. 

Instead of a narrow slip of valley, which is seen at Dove 
dale, you have at Keswick a vast amphitheatre, in circum- 
ference above twenty miles. Instead of a meagre rivulet, a 
noble living lake ten miles round, of an oblong form, adorn- 
ed with a variety of wooded islands. The rocks indeed of 
Dovedale are finely wild, pointed, and irregular ; but the 
hills are both little and unanimated ; and the margin of the 
brook is poorly edged with*weeds, morass, and brushwood, 
But at Keswick, you will, on one side of the lake, see a rich 
and beautiful landscape of cultivated fields, rising to the eye 
in fine inequalities, with noble groves of oak, happily dis- 
persed, and climbing the adjacent hills, shade above shade, 
in the most various and picturesque forms. On the oppo- 
site shore, you will find rocks and cliffs of stupendous height, 
hanging broken over the lake in horrible grandeur, some of 
them a thousand feet high, the woods climbing up their steep 
and shaggy sides, where mortal foot never yet approached. 
On these dreadful heights the eagles build their nests ; a 
variety of water-falls are seen pouring from their summits, 
and tumbling in vast sheets from rock to rock, in rude and 
terrible magnificence ; while, on all sides of this immense 
amphitheatre, the lofty mountains rise round, piercing the 
clouds, in shapes as spiry and fantastic as the very rocks of 
Dovedale. To this I must add the frequent and bold pro- 
jections of the cliffs into the lake, forming noble bays and 
promontories : In other parts they finely retire from it, and 
often open in abrupt chasms or clefts, through which, at 
hand, you see rich and uncultivated vales ; and beyond 
these, at various distance, mountain rising over mountain ; 
among which, new prospects present themselves in mist, 
till the eye is lost in an agreeable perplexity. 

Where active fancy travels beyond sense. 
And pictures things unseen. — 

Were I to analyze the two places into their constituent 
principles, I should tell you, that the full perfection of 
Keswick consists in three circumstances ; beauty, horror, 
and immensity, united ; the second of which alone, is 
found in Dovedale. Of beauty it hath little, nature having 
left it almost a desert ; neither its small extent nor the 
K 2 



114 'LESSONS' IN [Part $ 

diminutive and lifeless form of the hills, admits magnificence ; 
but to give you a complete idea of these three perfections, 
as they are joined in Keswick, would require the united 
powers of Claude, Salvator, and Poussin. The first should 
throw his delicate sunshine over the cultivated vales, the 
scattered cots, the groves, the lake, and wooded islands/ 
The second should dash out the horror of the rugged cliffs, 
the steeps, the hanging woods, and foaming water-falls ; 
while the grand pencil of Poussin should crown the whole* 
with the majesty of the impending mountains. 

So much for what I would call the permanent beauty of 
this astonishing scene. Were I not afraid of being tiresome,! 
could now dwell as long upon its varying or accidental beau- 
ties. I would sail round the lake, anchor in every bay, and 
land you on every promontory and island. T would point 
out the perpetual change of prospect ; the woods, rocks, 
cliffs, and mountains, by turns, vanishing or rising int© 
view ; now gaining on the sight, hanging over our heads in 
their full dimensions, beautifully dreadful ; and now, by a 
change of situation, assuming new romantic shapes ; retir- 
ing and lessening on the eye, and insensibly losing them- 
selves in an azure mist. I would remark the contrast of 
light and shade, produced by the morning and evening sun ; 
the one gilding the western, the other the eastern side of 
this immense amphitheatre ; while the vast shadow, pro- 
jected by the mountains, buries the opposite part in a deep 
and purple gloom, which the eye can hardly penetrate. 
The natural variety of colouring which the several objects 
produce, is no less wonderful and pleasing ; the ruling 
lints in the valley being those of azure, green, and gold ; 
yet ever various, arising from an intermixture of the lake, 
the woods, the grass, and corn-fields ; these are finely con- 
trasted by the gray rocks and cliffs ; and the whole height- 
ened by the yellow streams of light, the purple hues, and 
misty azure of the mountains. Sometimes, a serene air 
and clear sky disclose the tops of the highest hills ; at other 
times you see the clouds involving their summits, resting 
on their sides, or descending to their base, and rolling 
among the vallies, as in a vast furnace. When the winds 
are high, they roar among the cliffs and caverns, like peals 
of thunder ; then, too, the clouds are seen in vast bodies, 
sweeping along the hills in gloomy greatness, while the lake 
joins the tumult, and tosses like a sea. But in calm weather, 
the whole scene becomes new ; the lake is a perfect mirror* 



Sect. III.] HEADING. U6 

and the landscape in all its beauty ; islands, fields, woods, 
rocks, and mountains, are seen inverted, and floating on its 
surface. I will now carry you to the top of a cliff, where, 
if you dare approach the ridge, a new scene of astonishment 
presents itself; where the valley, lake, and islands, seem 
lying at your feet ; where this expanse of water appears 
diminished to a little pool, amidst the vast and immeasurable 
objects that surround it ; for here the summits of more dis- 
tant hills appear beyond those you have already seen; and, 
rising behind each other, in successive ranges, and azure 
groups of craggy and broken steeps, form an immense and 
awful picture, which can only be expressed by the image of 
a tempestuous sea of mountains. Let me now conduct you 
down again to the valley, and conclude with one circum- 
stance more ; which is, that a walk by a still moonlight (at 
which time the distant waterfalls are heard in all their va- 
riety of sound) among these enchanting dales, opens suclt 
scenes of delicate beauty, repose, and solemnity, as exceed 
all description. 

VIII. — Pity, and Allegory. 

IN the happy period of the golden age, when all the ce- 
lestial inhabitants descended to the earth, and conversed 
familiarly with mortals, among the most cherished of the 
heavenly powers, were twins, the offspring of Jupiter, Love 
and Joy. Wherever they appeared, the flowers sprung up 
beneath their feet, the sun shone with a brighter radiance, 
and all nature seemed embellished by their presence. 

They were inseparable companions ; and their growing 
attachment was favoured by Jupiter, who had decreed that 
a lasting union should be solemnized between them, so scon 
as they were arrived at maturer years. — But, in the mean 
time, the sons of men deviated from their native innocence; 
vice and ruin over-ran the earth with giant strides ; and As* 
trea, with her train of celestial visitants, forsook their pollut- 
ed abodes. Love alone remained, having been stolen away 
by Hope, who was his nurse, and conveyed by her to the 
forests of Arcadia, where he was brought up among the 
shepherds. But Jupiter assigned him a different partner, 
and commanded him to espouse Sorrow, the daughter of 
Ate. He complied, with reluctance ; for her features were 
harsh and disagreeable, her eyes sunk, her forehead con- 
tracted into perpetual wrinkles, and her temples were co- 
vered with a wreath of Cyprus and wormwood. 



216 LESSONS' IN [Part?, 

From this union sprang a virgin, in whom might he traced 
a strong resemblance to both her parents ; but the sullen 
* and unamiable features of her mother, were so mixed and 
1 blended with the sweetness of her father, that her counte- 
nance, though mournful, was highly pleasing. The maids 
; and shepherds of the neighbouring plains gathered round, 
and called her Pity. A red breast was observed to build 
in the cabin where she was born ; and, while she was yet an 
infant, a dove, pursued by a hawk, flew into her bosom. 
The nymph had a dejected appearance ; but so soft and 
gentle a mien, that she was beloved to a degree of enthusi- 
asm. Her voice was low and plaintive, but inexpressibly 
sweet, and she loved to lie, for hours together, on the banks 
of some wild and melancholy stream, singing to her lute. 
She taught men to weep, for she took a strange delight in 
tears ; and often, when the virgins of the hamlet were assem- 
bled at their evening sports, she would steal in among them ? 
and captivate their hearts by her tales, full of charming sad- 
ness. She wore on her head a garland, composed of her 
father's myrtles, twisted with her mother's cyprus. 

One day, as she sat musing by the waters of Helicon, her 
tears by chance fell into the fountain, and ever since, the 
muse's spring has retained a strong taste of the infusion- 
Pity was commanded by Jupiter to follow the steps of her 
mother through the world, dropping balm into the wounds 
she made, and binding up the hearts she had broken. She 
follows with her hair loose, her bosom bare and throbbing, 
her garments torn by the briers, and her feet bleeding with 
the roughness of the path. The nymph is mortal, for her 
mother is so ; and when she has fulfilled her destined course 
upon the earth, they shall both expire together, and Love be 
again united to Joy, his immortal and long betrothed bride, 

IX. — Advantages of Commerce. 
THERE is no place in town which I so much love to 
frequent, as the Royal Exchange. It gives me a secret 
satisfaction, and in some measure gratifies my vanity, as I 
am an Englishman, to see so rich an assembly of my coun- 
trymen and foreigners, consulting together upon the private 
business of mankind, and making this metropolis a kind of 
emporium for the whole earth. I must confess I look upon 
High Change to be a grand council, in which all considera- 
ble nations have their representatives. Factors, in the trad- 
ing world* are what ambassadors are in the politic world 



Sect. III.} READING:. .*# 

They negociate affairs, conclude treaties, and maintain a 
good correspondence between those wealthy societies of men, 
that are divided from one another by seas and oceans, or live 
on the different extremities of a continent. I have often 
been pleased to hear disputes adjusted between an inhabit- 
ant of Japan and an alderman of London ; or to see a sub- 
ject of the great Mogul entering; into a league with one of 
the Czar of Muscovy. I am infinitely delighted in mixing 
with these several ministers of commerce, as they are distin- 
guished by their different walks and different languages*. 
Sometimes I am jostled among a body of Armenians * some-, 
times I am lost in a crowd of Jews ; and sometimes mukg 
one in a group of Dutchmen. I am a Dane, Swede, or 
Frenchman, at different times, or rather fancy myself like 
the old philosopher, who, upon being asked what country- 
man he was, replied, that he was a citizen of the world. 

Nature seems to have taken a particular care to dissemi- 
nate her blessings among the different regions of the world, 
with an eye to this mutual intercourse and traffic among 
mankind, that the natives of the several parts of the globe 
might have a kind of dependance upon one another, and be 
united together by their common interests. Almost every 
degree produces something peculiar to it. The food often 
grows in one country, and the sauce in another. The fruits 
of Portugal are corrected by the products of Barbadoes ; 
the infusion of a China plant sweetened with the pith of an 
Indian cane. The Philippine islands give a flavour to our 
European bowls. The single dress of a woman of quality 
is often the product of a hundred climates. The muff and 
the fan come together from the different ends of the earth. 
The scarf is sent from the torrid zone, and the tippet from 
beneath the pole. The brocade petticoat rises out of the 
mines of Peru, and the diamond necklace out of the bowels 
of Indostan. 

If we consider our own country in its natural prospect, 
without any of the benehts and advantages of commerce, 
what a barren uncomfortable spot of the earth falls to our 
share ! Natural historians tell us, that no fruit grows origi- 
nally among us, besides hips and haws, acorns and pignuts, 
with other delicacies of the like nature ; that our climate, 
of itself, and without the assistance of art, can make no fur- 
ther advances toward a plum, than a sloe, and carries an 
apple to no greater perfection than a crab ; that our melons, 
our peaches, our figs, our apricots, and our cherries,, are 



118 LESSONS IN [Part I 

•strangers among us, imported in different ages, find natu- 
ralized in our English gardens ; and that they would all 
degenerate and fall away into the trash of our own country, 
if they were wholly neglected by the planter, and left to the 
mercy of our sun and soil. 

Nor has traffic more enriched our vegetable world, than 
it has improved the whole face of nature among us. Our 
ships are laden with the harvest of every climate ; our tables 
are stored with spices, and oils, and wines ; our rooms are 
filled with pyramids of China, and adorned with the work- 
manship of Japan ; our morning draught comes to us from 
the remotest corners of the earth ; we repair our bodies by 
the drugs of America, and repose ourselves under Indian 
canonies. My iriend, Sir Andrew, calls the vineyards of 
France, our gardens; the spice islands, our hot beds; the 
Persians, our silk weavers : and the Chinese, our potters. 
Nature, indeed, furnishes us with the bare necessaries ef 
lite ; but traffic gives us a great variety of what is useful, 
and, at the same time, supplies us with every thing that is 
convenient and ornamental. Nor is it the least part of this 
our happiness, that, whilst we enjoy the remctest products of 
the north and south, we are free from those extremities of 
weather which give them birth ; that our eyes are refreshed 
with the green fields of Britain, at the same time that our 
palates are feasted with fruits that rise between the tropics. 

For these reasons, there are not more useful members in 
a commonwealth than merchants. They knit mankind to- 
gether in a mutual intercourse of good offices, distribute 
the gifts of nature, find work for the poor, add wealth to the 
rich, and magnificence to the great. Our~ English mer- 
chant converts the tin of his own country into gold, and 
exchanges his wool for rubies. The Mahometans are 
clothed in our British manufacture, and the inhabitants 
of the frozen zone warmed with the fleeces of our sheep. 

X. — On Public Speaking. 
MOST foreign writers who have given any character of 
the English nation, whatever vices they ascribe to it, allow, 
in general, that the people are naturally mode. t. It pro- 
ceeds, perhaps, from this our national virtue, that our ora- 
tors are observed to make use of Jess gesture or action than 
those of other countries. Our preachers stand stock still in 
the pulpit, and will not so much as move a finger to set off 
the best sermons in the world. We meet with the same. 



Sect. Ill] READING. 119 

speaking statues at our bars, and in all public places of 
debate. Our words flow from us in a smooth continued 
stream, without those strainings of the voice, motions of the 
body, and majesty of the hand, which are so much celebra&r 
ed in the orators of Greece and Rome. We can talk of life 
and death in cold blood, and keep our temper in a discourse 
which turns upon every thing that is dear to us. Though 
our zeal breaks out in the finest tropes and figures, it is not 
able to stir a limb about us. 

It is certain that proper gestures and exertions of the voice 
cannot be too much studied by a public orator. They are 
a kind of comment to what he utters ; and enforces every 
thing he says, with weak hearers, better than the strongest 
argument he can make use of 1 hey keep the audience 
awake, and fix their attention to what is delivered to them ; 
at the same time that they show the speaker is in earnest, 
and aifected himself with what he so passionately recom- 
mends to others. 

We are told that the great Latin orator very much im- 
paired his health, by the vehemence of action with which he 
used to deliver himself. The Greek orator was likewise so 
very famous for this particular in rhetoric, that one of his 
antagonists, whom he had banished from Athens, reading 
over the oration which had procured his banishment, and 
seeing his friends admire it, could not forbear asking them 
— if they were so much affected by the bare reading of it, 
how much more they would have been alarmed, had they 
heard him actually throwing out such a storm cf eloquence. 

How cold and dead a figure, in comparison of these two 
great men, does an orator often make at the British bar, 
holding up his head with the most insipid serenity, and 
stroking the sides of a long wig that reaches down to his 
middle ! Nothing can be more ridiculous than the gestures 
of most of our English speakers. You see seme of them 
running their hands into their pockets as far as ever they 
can thrust them, and others looking with great attention en 
a piece of paper that has nothing written on it ; you majr 
see many a smart rhetorician turning his hat in his handsg 
moulding it into several different cocks, examining seme- 
times the lining of it, and sometimes the button, during the- 
whole course of his harangue. A deaf m;-n would think he 
was cheapening a beaver ; when perhaps he was talking of the 
fate of the British nation. I remember, when I was a young 
man, and used to frequent V/estnuaster-hall, there was a 



120 "LESSONS IN PPart 1 

counsellor who never pleaded without a piece of packthread 
in his hand, which he used to twist about a thumb or finger 
all the while he was speaking; the wag- of the used 

to call it the thread of his discourse, lor he w e lo 

utter a word without it. One of his clients, who was more 
merry than wise, stole it from him one day, in the midst of 
his pleading ; but he had better have left it alone, tor he 
lost his cause by the jest. 

'Xl.—Achaniages of History. 

THE advantages -found in history seem to be of three 
kinds ; as it amuses the fancy, as it improves the under- 
standing, and as it strengthens virtue. 

In reality, what more agi eeable entertainment ^c tbe mind, 
than to be transported into the remotest ages of the worlds 
and to observe human society, in its infancy, making the 
fc<i faint essays towards th&*arts and sciences 1 To see the 
policy of government and the civility of conv^sation,j*efinr 
h\g by degrees, and every tiling thai is ornamental to human 
life advancing towards its perfection ? To mark the rise, 
progress, declension, and linal extinction of the most flour- 
ishing empires; the virtues which contributed to their great* 
neSs', and the vices which drew on their rein? in short, to 
gee all the human race, from the beginning of time, pars as 
it were in revi ;w before us, appearing in their (rue colours, 
wttrkful aril of those disguises, which, during their life-time, 
so >lexed the judgment of the beholders? What 

stfe< fcacle car be imagined so magnificent, so various, so in- 
teresting? What an usement, either of the senses or imagi- 
nation, can be comps red with it 1 Shall our I 
#bich engross so much of our time, be pre ~e 

sal : (factofy, and more fit to engage our i w 

perViefse must that taste be, which is capable of so wrong" 
a choice of pleasure ? 

Ful history is a most improving part of knowledg 
well a- an agreeable amusement; and, indeed, a great part 
of what we commonly call erudition, and value so highly, >s 
nothing but an acquaintance with historical facts. An ex- 
tensive knowledge of this kind belongs to men of letters ;■ 
but I must think it an unpardonable ignorance in persons^ 
of whatever sex or condition, not to be acquainted with the 
histories of their own country, along with the histories of 
ancient Greece and Rome. 

1 must add, that history is not only a valuable part of v 



Sect. III.] HEADING. 121 

knowledge, but opens the door to many other parts of know- 
ledge, and affords materials to most of the sciences. And, 
indeed, if we consider the shortness of human life, and our 
limited knowlege, even of what passes in our own time, we 
must be sensible that we should be for ever children in un- 
derstanding, were it not for this invention, which extends 
our experience to all past ages, and to most distant nations, 
making them contribute as much to our improvement in 
wisdom, as if they had actually lain under our observation. 
A man acquainted with history, nnvy, in some respect, be 
said to have lived from the beginning of the world, and to 
have been making continual additions to his stock of know 
ledge, in entury. 

Ther< m advantage in that knowledge which is 

acquired by hisi v, above what is learned by the practice of 
the world, that it brings us acquainted with human affairs, 
without diminishing in the least from the most delicate sen- 
timents of virtue. And, to tell the truth, I scarce know any 
study or occupation so unexceptionable as history, in this 
particular. Poets can paint virtue in the most charming 
colours ; but, as they address themselves entirely to the 
passions, they often become advocates to vice. Even phi- 
losophers are apt to bewilder themselves in the subtilty of 
their speculations ; and we have seen some go so far, as to 
deny the reality of all moral distinctions. But I think it a 
remark worthy the attention of the speculative reader, that 
the historians have been almost without exception, the true 
friends of virtue, and have always represented it in its pro- 
per colours, however they may have erred in their judgments 
of particular persons. Nor is this combination of histori- 
ans, in favour of virtue, at all difficult to be accounted for. 
When a man of business enters into life and action, he is 
more apt to consider the characters of men as they have re- 
lation to his interest, than as they stand in themselves, and I 
has his judgment warped on every occasion, by the violence < 
of his passion. When a philosopher contemplates charac- ' 
ter and manners, in his closet, the general abstract view of; 
the objects leave the mind so cold and unmoved T that the 
sentiments of nature have no room to play, and he scarce 
feels the difference between vice and virtue. History keepf 
in a just medium betwixt these extremes, and places the 
objects in their true point of view* The writers of histofy # 
as well as the readers, are sufficiently interested in the char- 
acters and events, to have a lively sentiment of blame or 



m LESSONS IN [Part *• 

praise ; and, at the same time, have no particular interest 
or concern to pervert their judgment. 

XII. — On the Immortality of the Soul. 

AMONG other excellent arguments for the immortality 
of the soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual progress 
of the soul, to its perfection, without a possibility of ever ar- 
riving at it ; which is a hint that I do not remember to have 
seen opened and improved by others who have written on 
this subject, though it seems to me to cany a great weight 
with it. How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that 
the soul, which is capable of such immense perfections, and 
of receiving new improvements to all eternity, shall fall 
away into nothing, almost as soon as it is created ? Are such 
abilities made for no purpose? A brute arrives at a point 
of perfection that he can never pass; in a few years he has 
all the endowments he is capable of; and were he to live ten 
thousand more, he would be the same thing he is at present. 
Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments ; 
were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of further 
enlargements ; I could imagine it might fall away insensi- 
bly, and drop at once into a state of annihilation. But, can 
we believe a thinking being, that is in a perpetual progress 
pf improvement, and travelling on from perfection to per- 
fection, after having just looked abroad into the works of its 
Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite goodness, 
wisdom, and power, must perish at her first setting out, and 
in the very beginning of her inquiries ? 

Man, considered in his present state, does not seem born 
to enjoy life, but to deliver it down to others. — This is not 
surprising to consider in animals, which are formed for our 
use, and can finish their business in a short life. The silk- 
worm, after having spun her task, lays her eggs, and dies. But 
in this life man can never take in his full measure of know- 
ledge ; nor has he time to subdue his passions, establish his 
soul in virtue, and come up to the perfection of his nature, 
before he is hurried off the stage. Would an infinitely wise 
Being make such glorious creatures for so mean a purpose I 
Can he delight in the production of such abortive intelligen- 
ces, such short lived reasonable beings? Would he give us 
talents that are not to be exerted ? Capacities that are never 
to be gratified ? How can we find that wisdom which shines 
through all his works, in the formation of man, without look- 
teg on this world as only a nursery for the next ; and belie?- 



Sect. III.] READING, 223 

ing that the several generations of rational creatures, which 
rise up and disappear in such quick successions, are only to 
receive their first rudiments of all existence here, and after- 
wards to be transplanted into a more friendly climate, where 
they mvrf spread and flourish to all eternity. 

There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and trium- 
phant consideration in religion than this, of the perpetual 
progress which the soul makes towards the perfection of its 
nature, without ever arriving at a period in it. To look up- 
on the soul as going on from strength 1o strength : to con- 
sider that she is to shine, with new accessions of glory, to all 
eternity ; that she will be still adding virtue to virtue, and 
knowledge to knowledge ; carries in it something wonder- 
fully agreeable to that ambition which is natural to the mind 
of man. — Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God him- 
self, to see his creation for ever beautifying in his eyes, and 
drawing nearer to him, by greater degrees of resemblance. 

Methinks this single consideration, of the progress of a 
finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish all 
envy in inferior natures, and all contempt in superior 
That cherubim, which now appears as a God to a human 
soul, knows very well that the period will come about ia 
eternity, when the human soul shall be as perfect as he him- 
self now is ; nay, when she shall look down upon that degree 
of perfection, as much as she now 7 falls short of it. it is 
true, the higher nature still advances, and by that mean- 
preserves his distance and superiority in the scale of being ; 
but he knows, that how high soever tlie station is of which lie 
stands possessed at present, the inferior nature will at length 
mount up to it, and shine forth in the same degree of glory. 

With what astonishment and veneration may we look 
into our souls, where there are such hidden stores of virtue 
and knowledge, .such inexhausted sources of perfection; 
We know not yet what we shall he, nor will it ever enter 
into the heart of man to conceive the glory that will be al- 
ys in reserve for him. The soul, considered in relation 
lis Creator, is like one of those mathematical lines, that 
may draw nearer to another for all eternity, without a pos- 
sibility of touching it ; and can there be a thought so trans- 
porting, as to consider ourselves in these perpetual ap- 
aches to Kim, who is not only the standard of perfee'- 
of happiness 1 



]£* LESSONS m [Fart I. 

XIII. — -The Combat of the Horatii and the Curiatii. 

THE combat of the Horatii and Curiatii is painted in a 
very natural and animated maimer by Livy. The cause 
was this. The inhabitants of Alba and Rome, roused by 
ambition and mutual complaints, took the field, and were 
en the eve of 'a bloody battle, The Alban general, to pre- 
vent the effusion of blood, proposed to Hostilius, then king 
©fRome, to refer the destiny of both nations to three com- 
batants of each side, and that empire should be the prize 
of the conquering party. The proposal was accepted. 
The Albans named the Curiatii, three brothers, for their 
champions. The three sons of Horatius were chosen for 
the Romans. 

The treaty being concluded, the three brothers, on each 
side, arrayed themselves in armour, according- to agree- 
ment. Each side exhorts its respective champions ; repre- , 
seating to them, that their gods, their country, their pa- 
rents, every individual in the city and army, now fixed their 
eyes on their arms and valour. The generous combatants, 
intrepid in themselves, and animated by such exhortations, 
marched forth, and stood between the two armies. The ar- 
mies placed themselves before their respective camps, and 
were less solicitous for any present dajnger; than for the con- 
sequence of this action. They, therefore, gave their whole 
attention to a sight, which could not but alarm them. The 
signal is given. The combatants engage with hostile wea- 
pons, and show themselves inspired with the intrepidity of 
two mighty armies. Both parties, equally insensible of their 
own clanger, had nothing in view but the slavery or liberty 
of their country, whose destiny depended upon their con- 
duct. At the first onset, the clashing of their armour, and 
the terrific gleam of their swords, filled the spectators with 
such trepidation, fear, and horror, that the faculty of speech 
and breath seemed totally suspended, even while the hope of 
success inclined to neither side. — But when it came to a 
closer engagement, not only the motions of their bodies, and 
the furious agitation of their weapons, arrested the eyes of 
the spectators, but their opening wounds, and the streaming 
blood. Two of the Romans fell, and expired at the fee. 
the Albans, who were all three wounded. Upon their fall, 
the Alban army shouted for joy, while the Roman legions 
remained without hope, but not without concern, being ea- 
gerly anxious for the surviving Roman, then surrounded 
by his three adversaries. Happily, he was not wounded ; 



Sect. III.] READING 125 

but not being a match for three, though superior to any of 
them singly, he had recourse to a stratagem for dividing 
them. He betook himself to flight; rightly supposing, 
that they would follow him at unequal distances, as their 
strength, after so much loss of blood, would permit. Hav- 
ing iled a considerable wa}' from the spot where they fought, 
he looked back, and saw the Curiatii pursuing at a consi- 
derable distance from one another, and one of them very near 
him. He turned with all his fury upon the foremost ; and, 
while the Alban army were crying out to his brothers to suc- 
cour him, Horatius, having presently despatched his first en- 
emy, rushed forward to a second victory. The Romans 
encourage their champion by such acclamations, as gene- 
rally proceed from unexpected success. He, on the other 
hand, hastens to put an end to the second combat, and slew 
another before the third, who was not far off, could come up 
to his assistance. There now remained only one comba- 
tant on each side. The Roman, who had still received no 
hurt, fired with gaining a double victory, advances with 
great confidence to his third combat. His antagonist, on 
the other hand, being weakened by the loss of blood, arid 
spent with running so far, could scarce drag his legs after 
him, and being already dispirited by the death of his bro- 
thers, presents his breast to the victor, for it 4 could not be 
called a contest. " Two, (says the exulting Roman) two 
have I sacrificed to the manes of my brothers — the third 
I will offer up to my country, that henceforth Rome may 
give laws to Alba." Upon which he transfixed him with 
his sword, and stripped him of his armour. The Romans 
received Horatius, the victor, into their camp, with an 
exultation, great as their former fear. After this each ar- 
my buried their respective dead, but with very different 
sentiments ; the one reflecting on the sovereignty they had 
acquired, and the other on their subjection to slavery, to 
the power of the Romans. 

This combat became still more remarkable : Horatius 
returning to Rome, with the arms and spoils of his enemy, 
met his sister, who was to have been married to one of the 
Curiatii. Seeing her brother dressed in her lovers coat ot 
armour, which she herself had wrought, she could not con- 
tain her grief She shed a flood of tears, she tore her 

hair, and in the transport of her sorrow, uttered the most 
violent imprecations against her brother. Horatius, warm 
with his victory, and enraged at the grief which bis sister 
L 2 



126 LESSONS IN [Part 1. 

expressed, with such unseasonable passion, in the midst of 
the public joy, in the heat of his anger, drove a poignard to 

her heart. - 4 » Begone to thy lover," says he, a and carry 

him that degenerate passion which makes thee prefer a 
dead enemy to the glory of thy country." Every body de- 
tested an action so cruel and inhuman. The murderer was 
immediately seized and dragged before the Duumviri, the 
proper judges of such crimes, Horatius was condemned 
to lose his life ; and the very day of his triumph bad been 
the day of his punishment, if he had not, by the advice of 
Tullus Hostilius, appealed from that judgment to the as- 
sembly of the people. He appeared there with the same 
courage and resolution that he had shown in the combat 
with the Curiatii. — —The people thought so great a service 
might justly excuse them, if for once they moderated the 
rigour of the law; and accordingly, be was acquitted, rather 
through admiration of his courage, than for the justice of 
his cause. 

XIV. — On the Power of Custom, 

THERE is not a common saying which has a better 
turn of sense in it, than what we often hear in the mouths oi 
the vulgar, that custom is second nature.- — It is, indeed, 
able to form the man anew, and give him inclinations and 
capacities altogether different from those he was born with. 
A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took 
but little delight in it at first, hj degrees contracts so strong 
an inclination towards it, and gives himself up so entirely to 
it , that it seems the only end of his being. The love of a re- 
tired or busy life will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is 
conversant in the one or the other, till he is utterly unquali- 
fied for relishing that to which he has been for some time 
disused. Nay, a man may smoke, or drink, or take snuff, 
till he Is unable to pass away his time without it ; not to 
mention how our delight in any particular study, art or sci- 
ence, rises and improves, in proportion to the application 
which we bestow upon it. Thus, what was at first an exer- 
cise, becomes at length an entertainment. Our employ- 
ments are changed into diversions. The mind grows fond 
of those actions it is accustomed to, and is drawn with reluc- 
tancy from those paths in which it has been used to walk* 

If we consider, attentively, this property of human na- 
ture, it must instruct us in very fine moralities. In the 
first place, I would have no man discouraged with that kind 



Sect. Ill] READING- 127 

of life, or series of action, in which the choice of others, or 
his own necessities may have engaged him. It may, per- 
haps be very disagreeable to him at first ; but use and ap- 
plication will certainly render it not only less painful, but 
pleasing and satisfactory. 

In the second place, I would recommend to every one the 
admirable precept which Pythagoras is said to have given to 
his disciples, and which that philosopher must have drawn 
from the observation I have enlarged upon ; " Pitch upon 
that course of life which is the most excellent, and custom 
will render it the most delightful." Men, whose circum- 
stances will permit them to choose their own way of life, arc 
inexcusable if they do not pursue that which their judgment 
tells them is the most laudable. The voice of reason is 
more to be regarded than the bent of any present inclina- 
tion, since, by the rule above mentioned, inclination will^ 
at length, come over to reason, though we can never force 
reason to comply with inclination. 

In the third place, this observation may teach the most 
sensual and irreligious man, to overlook those hardships and 
difficulties, which are apt to discourage him from the prose- 
cution of a virtuous life. " The gods," says Hesiod, " have 
placed labour before virtue ; the way to her is at first rough 
and difficult, but grows more smooth and easy the farther 
you advance in it," The man who proceeds in it with stea- 
diness and resolution, will in a little time find, that "her 
ways are ways of pleasantness, and that all her paths are 
peace." 

To enforce this consideration, we may further observe 5 
that the practice of religion will not only be attended with 
that pleasure which naturally accompanies those actions to 
which we are habituated ; but with those supernumerary 
joys of heart, that rise from the consciousness of such a plea- 
sure, from the satisfaction of acting up to the dictates of 
reason, and from the prospect of a happy immortality. • 

In the fourth place, we may learn from this observation, 
which we have made on the mind of man, to take particular 
care, when we are once settled in a regular coarse of life, 
how we too frequently indulge ourselves in any of the most 
innocent diversions and entertainments ; since the mind 
may insensibly fall oif from the relish of virtuous actions, 
and, by degrees, exchange that pleasure which it takes in 
the performance of its duty, for delights of a much more 
inferior and unprofitable nature. 



1 2S LESSONS IN 1 [Part I, 

The last use which I shall make of this remarkable pro- 
perty in human nature, of being delighted with those actions 
to which it is accustomed, is, to show how absolutely neces- 
sary it is for us to gain habits of virtue in this life, if we 
would enjoy the pleasures of the next. — The state of bliss 
we call heaven, will not be capable of affecting those minds 
which are not thus qualified for it ; we must in this world 
gain a relish of truth and virtue, if we would be able to taste 
that knowledge and perfection, which are to make us happy 
in the next. The seeds of those spiritual joys and raptures, 
which are to rise up and flourish in the soul to ail eternity, 
must be planted in it during this its present state of proba- 
tion. In short, heaven is not to be looked upon only as the 
reward, but as the natural effect of a religious life. 

XV. — On Pedantry. 

PEDANTRY, in the common sense of the word, means 
an absurd ostentation of learning, and stiffness of phraseol- 
ogy, proceeding from a misguided knowledge of books and 
a total ignorance of men. 

But I have often thought, that we might extend its sig- 
nification a good deal farther ; and, in general, apply it to 
that failing, which disposes a person to obtrude upon others, 
subjects of conversation relating to his own business, studies, 
or amusements. 

In this sense of the phrase, we should find pedants in every 
character and condition of life. Instead of a black coat 
nnd a plain shirt, we should often see pedantry appear in an 
embroidered suit and Brussels lace ; instead of being be- 
daubed with snuff, we should find it breathing perfumes i 
and, in place of a bookworm, crawling through the gloom}" 
cloisters of a university, we should mark it in the state oi 
a gilded butterfly, buzzing through the gay region of the 
drawing-room. 

Robert Daisy, Esq. is a pedant of this last kind. — When 
he tells you that his ruffles cost twenty guineas a pair ; that 
his buttons were the first of the kind, made by one of the 
most eminent artists in Birmingham ; that his buckles were 
procured by means of a friend at Paris, and are the exact 
pattern of those worn by the Compte d'Artois ; that the 
loop of his hat was of his own contrivance, and has set the 
fashion to half a dozen of the finest fellows in town : When 
he descants on all these particulars, with that smile of self- 
complacency which sits for ever on his cheek, he is as much 



Sect, III.] READING. 129 

a pedant as his quondam tutor, who reciter verses from Pin- 
dar, ries out of Herodotus, and talks for an hour on 
the energy of the Greek particles. 

But Mr. Daisy is struck dumb bj the approach of his 
brother, Sir Thomas, whose pedantry goes a pitch higher, 
and pours out all the intelligence of France and Italy,' 
whence the young baronet is just returned, after a tour of 
fifteen months over all the kingdoms of the continent. 
Talk of music, he cuts you sliGrt with the history of the nrst 
singer at Naples ; of painting, he runs you down with a 
description of the gallery at Florence ; of architecture, he 
overwhelms you with the dimensions of St. Peters or the 
great church at Antwerp ; or, if you leave the province of 
art altogether, and introduce the name of a river or hill, he 
instantly deluges you with the Rhine, or makes you dizzy 
with the height of iEtoa or Mont Blanc. 

Miss will have no difficulty of owning her great aunt to 
be a pedant, when she talks all the time of dinner, on the 
composition of the pudding, or the seasoning of the mince- 
pies ; or enters into a disquisition on the figure of the da- 
mask table-cloth, with a word or two on the thrift of making 
one's own linen ; but the young lady will be surprised when 
I inform her, that her own history of last Thursday's assem- 
bly, with the episode of Lady D"s feather, and the digres- 
sion to the qualities of Mr. Frizzle, the hair-dresser, was 
also a piece of downright pedantry. 

Mrs. Caudle is guilty of the same weakness, when she re- 
counts the numberless witticisms of her daughter Emmy, 
describes the droll figure her little Bill made yesterday at 
trying on his first pair of breeches ; and informs us, that 
Bobby has got seven teeth, and is just cutting an eighth, 
though he will be but nine months old next Wednesday, at 
six oxlock in the evening. Nor is her pedantry less dis- 
gusting, when she proceeds to enumerate the virtues and 
good qualities of her husband : though this last species is 
so uncommon, that it may, perhaps, be admitted into con- 
versation for the sake of novelty. 

There is pedantry in every disquisition, however mas- 
terly it may he, that stops the general conversation of the 
company. When Silius delivers that sort of lecture he is apt 
to gtt into, though it is supported by the most extensive infor- 
mation and the clearest discernment, it is still pedantry ; 
and, while I admire the talents of Silius, I cannot help be- 
ing uneasy at his exhibition of them. Last night, after 



130 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

supper, Silius began upon Protestantism, proceeded to the 
Irish massacre, went through the revolution, drew the cha- 
racter of King William, repeated anecdotes of Schomberg 1 
and ended, at a quarter past twelve, by delineating the 
course of the Boyne, in half a bumper of port, upon my 
best table ; which river, happening to overflow its banks, 
did infinite damage to my cousin Sophy's white satin pet- 
ticoat. 

In short, every thing, in this sense of the word, is pedan- 
try, which tends to destroy that equality of conversation 
which is necessary to the perfect ease and good humour olf 
the company. Every one would be struck with the tfxipo* 
liteness of that person's behaviour, who should help himself 
to a whole plateful of peas or strawberries, which some 
friend had sent him for a rarity, in the beginning of the sea- 
son. Now, conversation is one of those good things, of 
which our guests or companions are equally entitled to a 
share, as of any other constituent part of the entertainment ; 
and it is as essential a want of politeness to engross the one, 
as to monopolize the other. 

XVI.— The Journey of a Day. — A Picture of Human Life. 

OBIDAH, the son of Abensina, left the caravansary early 
in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains 
of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest ; he was 
animated with hope : he was incited by desire ; he walked 
swiftly forward over the tallies, and saw the hills gradually 
rising before him. As he passed along, his ears were de- 
lighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise, he 
was fanned by the last flutters of the sinking breeze, and 
sprinkled with dew by groves of spices ; he sometimes con- 
templates the towering height of the oak, monarch of the 
hills ; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the* 
primrose, eldest daughter of the spring ; all his senses were 
gratified^ and all care was banished from his heart. 

Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian, 
and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength ; he then 
looked round about him for some more commodious path. 
He saw on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its 
shades as a sign of invitation ; he entered it, and found the 
coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. IIq did not, 
however, forget whither he was travelling, but found a nar- 
row way, bordered with flowers, which appeared to Lave the 
same- direction with the main road, and was pleased, that, 



Sect. III.] READING. 131 

by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite 
pleasure with business, and to gain the rewards of diligence 
without suffering its fatigues, He, therefore, still continued 
to walk for a time, without the least remission of his ardour, 
except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music 
of the birds, whom the heat had assembled in the shade, 
and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers 
that covered the banks on either side, or the fruits that hung 
upon the branches. At last, the green path began to de- 
cline from its first tendency, and to wind among the hills and 
thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring with wa- 
ter-falls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to 
consider, whether it were longer safe to forsake the known 
and common track ; but, remembering that the heat was 
now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty 
and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, which he 
supposed only to make a few meanders in compliance with 
the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the com- 
mon road. 

Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace,, 
though he suspected he was not gaining ground. This 
uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on e very- 
new object, and give way to every sensation that might sooth 
or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mounted every 
hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every cascade, 
and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle ri- 
ver, that rolled among the trees and watered a large region, 
with innumerable circumvolutions. In these amusements, 
the hours passed away unaccounted, his deviations had per- 
plexed his memory, and he knew not towards what point to 
travel. He stood pensive and confused, afraid to go for- 
ward, lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time 
of loitering was now past. While he was thus tortured with 
uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds, the day 
vanished from before him, and a sudden tempest gathered 
round his head. He was now roused by his danger, to a 
quick and painful remembrance of his folly ; he now saw 
how happiness was lost w r hen ease is consulted ; he lamented 
the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek shelter, 
in the grove, and despised the petty curiosity that led him 
on from trifle to trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the 
air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder broke his meditation* 

He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power, to 
treat back the ground vyhich he had passed, and try to fi*i<l 



132 LESSONS IN [Part 1. 

some issue, where the wood might open into the plain. He 
prostrated himself upon the ground, and commended his 
life to the Lord of nature. Ke rose with confidence and 
tranquillity, and pressed on with his seibre in his hand ; for 
the beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand 
were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage 
and expiration ; all the horrors of darkness and solitude 
surrounded him ;^— the winds roared in the woods, and the 
torrents tumbled from the Kills. 

Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the 
wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether he 
was every moment drawing nearer to safety or to destruc- 
tion. At length, not fear but labour began to overcome 
him ; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and 
he was on the point of lying down in resignation to his fate ; 
when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a 
taper. He advanced towards the light, and rinding that it 
proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly 
at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set be- 
fore him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on 
which Obidali fed with eagerness and gratitude. 

When the repast was over, " Tell me, said the hermit, 
by what chance thou hast been brought hither ; I have been 
row twenty years an inhabitant of this wilderness, in which 
I never saw a man before." Obidr a then related the occur- 
rences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation. 

;t Son, said the hermit, let the errors and follies, the dan- 
gers and escapes, of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Re- 
member, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. 
We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, and full of 
expectation ; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gai- 
ety and with diligence, and travel on awhile in the straight 
road of piety towards the mansions of rest. In a short time 
we remit our fervour, and endeavour to find some mitigation 
of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the 
same end. W T e then relax our vigour, and resolve no longer 
to be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our 
own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve 
never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and re- 
pose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and 
vigilance subsides, we are then willing to inquire whether 
another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not 
at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. . We 
approach them with scruple and hesitation ; we enter them, 



Sect. IV.] READING. 133 

but enter timorous and trembling, and always hepe to pass 
through them without losing the road of virtue, which we 
for a while keep in our sight, and to which we propose to 
return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and one 
compliance prepares us for another ; we in time lose the 
happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual 
gratifications. By degrees we let fail the remembrance of 
our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of 
rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, im- 
merge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths 
of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to in- 
vade us, and disease and anxietj^ obstruct our way. We 
then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with 
repentance ; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we 
had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they^ my 
son, who shall learn from thy example, not to despair, but 
shall remember, that though the day is past, and their 
strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made ; 
that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours 
ever unassisted ; that the wanderer may at length return, 
after all his errors ; and that he who implores strength and 
courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give 
way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose, commit 
thyself to the care of Omnipotence ; and when the morning 
calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life.' 1 



SECTION IV. '-" %) 

L — Description of the Amphitheatre of Titus* 
POSTERITY admires, and will long admire, the awful 
remains of the amphitheatre of Titus, which so well de- 
serves the epithet of Colossal. It was a building of an ellip- 
tic figure, five hundred and sixty-four feet in length, and 
four hundred and sixty-seven in breath : founded on four- 
score arches; and rising with four successive orders of archi- 
tecture, to the height of one hundred and forty feet. The 
outside of the edifice was encrusted with marble, and deco- 
rated with statues. The slopes of the vast concave, which 
formed the inside, were filled, and surrounded with sixty 
or eighty rows of seats of marble, covered with cushions, 
and capable of receiving with ease, above fourscore thou- 
sand spectators. Sixty-four vomitories (for by that name 
the doors were very aptly distinguished) poured forth the 
* M 



134 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

immense multitude ; and the entrances, passages, and stair- 
cases, were contrived with such exquisite skill, that each 
person, whether of the senatorial, the equestrian, or the 
plebeian order, arrived at his destined place, without trou- 
ble or confusion. 

Nothing was omitted which, in any respect, could be 
subservient to the convenience and pleasure of the spec- 
tators. They were protected from the sun and rain by an 
ample canopy, occasionally drawn over their heads. The 
air was continually refreshed by the playing of fountains, 
and profusely impregnated by the grateful scent of aro- 
matics. In the centre of the edifice, the arena, or stage, 
was strewed with the finest sand, and successively assumed 
the most different forms. At one moment, it seemed to 
rise out of the earth, like the garden of the Hesperides ; 
at another, it exhibited the rugged rocks and caverns of 
Thrace. The subterraneous pipes conveyed an inexhausti- 
ble supply of water ; and what had just before appeared a 
level plain, might be suddenly converted into a wide lake, 
covered with armed vessels, and replenished with the mon- 
sters of the deep. 

In the decorations of these scenes, the Roman emperors 
displayed their wealth and liberality ; and we read, that, 
on various occasions, the whole furniture of the amphi- 
theatre consisted either of silver, or of gold, or of amber. 
The poet who describes the games of Carinus, in the cha- 
racter of a shepherd, attracted to the capitol by the fame 
of their magnificence, affirms, that the nets designed as a 
defence against the wild beasts, were of gold wire ; that the 
porticos were gilded ; and that the belt or circle^ which 
divided the several ranks of spectators from each other, was 
studded with a precious mosaic of beautiful stones. 

II. — Reflections on Westminster Abbey* 
WHEN I am in a serious humour, I very often walk by 
myself in Westminster Abbey ; where the gloominess of 
the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the 
solemnity of the building, and the condition of the people 
who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melan- 
choly, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. 
I yesterday passed a whole afternoon in the church-yard, 
the cloisters, and the church ; amusing myself with the 
tombstones and inscriptions, which I met with in those sev- 
eral^egions of the dead, Most of tbem recorded oothinj 



Sect, IV.] READING. 135 

else of the buried person, but that he was bom upon one 
day and died upon another ; two circumstances that are 
common to all mankind. I could not but look upon those 
registers of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind 
of satire upon the departed persons, who had left no other 
memorial of themselves, than that they were born, and that 
they died. 

Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself 
with the digging of a grave ; and saw, in every shovelful 
of it that was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull 
intermixed with a kind of fresh mouldering earth, that, 
some time or other, had a place in the composition of a 
human body. Upon this I began to consider with myself, 
what innumerable multitudes of people lay confused to- 
gether, under the pavement of that ancient cathedral ; 
how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and 
soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crumbled among* 
one another, and blended together in the same common 
mass; how beauty, strength, and yout'h, with old age, 
weakness and deformity, fay undistinguished, in the same 

^iuuusuuuus neap ot matter,* 

After having thus surveyed this great magazine 0£ 
mortality, as it were, in the lump, I examined it more 
particularly by the accounts which I found on several of 
the monuments, which are raised in every quarter of that 
ancient fabric. Some of them are covered with such 
extravagant epitaphs, that, if it were possible for the dead 
person to be acquainted with them, he would blush at the 
praise which his friends have bestowed upon him. There 
are others so excessively modest, that they deliver the cha- 
racter of the person departed in Greek or Hebrew, and, by 
that means, are not understood once in a twelvemonth. la 
the poetical quarter, I found there were poets who had no 
monuments, and monuments which had no poets. I ob- 
served, indeed, that the present war had filled the church 
with many of those uninhabited monuments, which had been 
erected to the memory of persons, whose bodies were per- 
haps buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the bosom of 
the ocean. 

I could not but be very much delighted with several 
modern epitaphs, which are written with great elegance of 
expression and justness of thought, and which, therefore, do 
honour to the living as well as to the dead. As a foreign- 
er is very apt to conceive an idea of the ignorance or po* 



136 LESSONS IN [Part f, 

liteness of a nation, from the turn of their public monu- 
ments, and inscriptions, the}' should be submitted to the 
perusal of men of learning and genius, before they are put 
into execution. Sir Cloudsly Shovel's monument has very 
often given me great offence. Instead of the brave rough 
English admiral, which was the distinguishing character 
of that plain gallant man, he is represented, on his tomb, 
by the figure of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, and 
reposing himself upon velvet cushions, under a canopy of 
State. The inscription is answerable to the monument * 
for, instead of celebrating the many remarkable actions 
he had performed in the service of his country, it acquaints 
as only with the manner of his death, in which it was im- 
possible for hirn to reap any honour. — The Dutch, whom 
we are apt to despise for want of genius, show an infinitely 
greater taste in their buildings and works of this nature, 
than we meet with in those of our own country,. The mon- 
uments of their admirals, which have been erected at the 
public expense, represent them like themselves, and are 
adorned with rostral crowns and naval ornaments, with 
beautiful festoons of seaweed, shells, and coral. 

I knew that entcrtrinrncr.t" of this nature arp apt to 
raise dark and dismal, thoughts in> timorous minds* and 
gloomy imaginations ; but, for m}' own part, though I 
am always serious, I do not know what it is to be melan- 
choly ; and can, therefore, take a view of nature in her 
deep and solemn scenes, with the same pleasure as in her 
mosl gay and delightful ones. By this means, I can 
improve myself with objects which others consider with 
terror.— When I look upcjfi the tombs of the great, everv 
emotion of envy dies in me ; when I read the epitaphs of 
the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when 1 
meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart 
melts with compassion ; when I see the tomb of the parents 
themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those 
whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying 
by those who deposed them; when I consider rival wits 
placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world 
with their contests and disputes ; I reflect, with sorrow and 
astonishment, on the little competitions, factions, and de- 
bates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the 
lombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred 
years ago, I consider that great day, when we shall all of us 
he cotemporaries, and make our appearance together 



Sect. IV.] READING, 1ST 

III. — The Character of Mary, Queen of Scots. 

TO all the charms of beauty, and the utmost elegance 
of external form, Mary added those accomplishments 
which render their impression irresistible. Polite, affable, 
insinuating, sprightly, and capable of speaking and of wri- 
ting with equal ease and dignity. Sudden, however, and 
violent in all her attachments, because her heart was warm 
and unsuspicious. Impatient of contradiction, because 
she had been accustomed, from her infancy, to be treated 
as a queen. No stranger, on some occasions, to dissimula- 
tion, which, in that perfidious court, where she received 
her education, was reckoned among the necessary arts of 
government. Not insensible to flattery, nor unconscious 
of that pleasure with which almost every woman beholds 
the influence of her own beauty. Formed with the quali- 
ties that we love, not with the talents that we admire, she 
was an agreeable woman, rather than an illustrious queen. 

The vivacity of her spirit, not sufficiently tempered with 
sound judgment, and the warmth of her heart, which was* 
not at all times under the restraint of discretion, betrayed 
her both into errors and into crimes. To say that she was 
always unfortunate, will not account for that long and al- 
most uninterrupted succession of calamities which befell her; 
we must likewise add, that she was often imprudent. Her 
passion for Darnly was rash, youthful, and excessive. And 
though the sudden transition to the opposite extreme, was 
the natural effect of her ill requited love, and of his in- 
gratitude, insolence, and brutality ; yet neither these, nor 
BothwelPs artful address and important services, can jus- 
tify her attachment to that nobleman. Even the manners 
of the age, licentious as they were, are no apology for this 
unhappy passion ; nor can they induce us to look on that 
tragical and infamous scene which followed upon it, with 
les£ abhorrence. Humanity will draw a veil over this part 
of her character, which it cannot approve, and may, perhaps, 
prompt some to impute her actions to her situation, more 
than to her disposition ; and to lament the unhappinesa 
of the former, rather than to accuse the perverseness of the 
latter. Mary's sufferings exceed, both in degree and in 
duration, those tragical distresses which fancy has feigned, 
to excite sorrow and commiseration ; and while we survey 
them, we are apt altogether to forget her frailties ; we 
think of her faults with less indignation, and approve of our 
M 2 



133 LESSONS IN , {Part £ 

tears, as if they were shed for a person who had attained 
much nearer to pure virtue. 

With regard to the queen's person, a circumstance not 
to he omitted in writing the history of a female reign, all 
cotemporary authors agree, in ascribing to Mary the ut- 
most beauty of countenance, and elegance of shape, of 
which the human form is capable. Her hair was black, 
though, according to the fashion of that age, she frequently 
wore borrowed locks, and of different colours. Her eyes 
were a dark gray, her complexion was exquisitely fine, and 
her hands and arms remarkably delicate, both as to shape 
and colour. Her stature was of a height that rose to the 
majestic. She danced, she walked, and rode, with equal 
grace. Her taste for music was just ; and she both sung 
and played upon the lute with uncommon skill. Towards 
the end of her life, she began to grow fat ; and her long 
confinement, and the coldness of the houses in which she 
was imprisoned, brought on a rheumatism, which deprived 
her of the use of her limbs. No man, says Brantome, 
(ever beheld her person without admiration and love, or will 
read her history without sorrow. 

IV. — Character of Queen Elizabeth. 
THERE are few personages, in history, who have been 
more exposed to the calumny of enemies, and the adulation 
€>f friends, than Queen Elizabeth ; and yet there scarce is 
any, whose reputation has been more certainly determined, 
X>y the unanimous consent of posterity. The unusual 
length of her administration, and the strong features of her 
character, were able to overcome all prejudices ; and obli- 
ging her detractors to abate much of their invectives, and 
fcer admirers somewhat of their panegyric, have, at last, in 
spite of political factions, and what is more, of religious 
animosities, produced a uniform judgment with regard to 
her conduct. Her vigour, her constancy, her magnanimity, 
her penetration, vigilance, and address, are allowed to merit 
the highest praises ; and appear not to have been surpassed 
fey any person who ever filled a throne ; a conduct less ri- 
gorous, less imperious, more sincere, more indulgent to her 
people, would have been requisite to form a perfect charac- 
ter. By the force of her mind, she controlled all her more 
active and stronger qualities, and prevented them from run- 
sing into excess. Her heroism was exempted from all te- 
merity, her frugality from avarice^ her friendship from par- 



HkcT. IV.] READING 133 

tialit}', her enterprise from turbulency and a tain ambition; 
she guarded not herself with equal care or equal success from 
lesser infirmities — the rivalship of beauty, the desire of ad- 
miration, the jealousy of love, and the sallies of anger. 

Her singular talents for government were founded equally 
on her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great 
command over herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled 
ascendancy over the people ; and, while she merited all 
their esteem by her real virtues, she also engaged their 
affection, by her pretended ones. Few sovereigns of Eng- 
land succeeded to the throne in more difficult circum- 
stances, and none ever conducted the government with 
such uniform success and felicity. Though unacquainted 
with the practice of toleration, the true secret for managing 
religious factions, she preserved her people, by her superior 
prudence, from those confusions in which theological contro- 
versy had involved all the neighbouring nations ; and though 
her enemies were the most powerful princes of Europe, the 
most active, the most enterprising, the least scrupulous, she- 
was able, by her vigour, to make deep impressions on their 
state ; her own greatness meanwhile remaining untouched 
and unimpaired. 

The wise ministers and brave warriors who flourished 
during her reign, share the praise of her success ; but, in- 
stead of lessening the applause due to her ; they make great 
addition to it. They owed, all of them, their advancement 
to her choice ; thej r were supported by her constancy ; and., 
with all their ability, they were never able to acquire an 
undue ascendancy over her. In her family, in her court, 
in her kingdom, she remained equally mistress. The force 
of her tender passions was great over her, but the force of 
her mind was still superior ; and the combat which her vic- 
tory visibly cost her, serves only to display the firmness 
of her resolution, and the loftiness of her ambitious senti- 
ments. 

The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the 
prejudices both of faction and of bigotry, yet lies still ex- 
posed to another prejudice, which is more durable, because 
more natural ; and which, according to the different views 
in which we survey her, is capable either of exalting beyond 
measure, or diminishing the lustre of her character. This 
prejudice is founded on the consideration of her sex. When 
we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt to be struck 
with the highest admiration of her qualities, and extensive 



140 LESSONS IN [Part L 

capacity ; but we are also apt to require some more softness 
of disposition, some greater lenity of temper, some of those 
amiable weaknesses by which her sex is distinguished. But 
the true method of estimating her merit, is to lay aside all 
these considerations, and to consider her merely as a rational 
being, placed in authority, and entrusted with the govern- 
ment of mankind. We may find it difficult to reconcile 
our fancy to her, as a wife or a mistress ; but her qualities 
as a sovereign, though with some considerable exceptions, 
are the objects of undisputed applause and approbation. 

V. — Charles V*$ Resignation of his Dominions. 

CHARLES resolved to resign his dominions to his son, 
with a solemnity suitable to the importance of the transac- 
tion ; and to perform this last act of sovereignty with such 
formal pomp, as might leave an indelible impression on the 
minds, not only of his subjects, but of his successor. With 
this view he called Philip out of England, where the peevish 
temper of his queen, which increased with the despair of 
having issue, rendered him extremely unhappy, and the 
jealousy of the English left him no hopes of obtaining the 
direction of their affairs. Having assembled the states of 
the Low Countries at Brussels, on the twenty-fifth of Octo- 
ber, one thousand five hundred and fifty-five, Charles seat- 
ed himself, for the last time, in the chair of state, on one 
side of which was placed his son, and on the other, his sister, 
the queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands ; with a 
splendid retinue, of the grandees of Spain, and princes of 
the empire, standing behind him. The president of the 
council of Flanders, by his command, explained, in a few 
words, his intention, in calling this extraordinary meeting 
of the states. He then read the instrument of resignation, 
'by which Charles surrendered to his son Philip all his terri- 
tories, jurisdiction, and authority, in the Low Countries, 
absolving his subjects there, from their oath of allegiance 
to him, which he required them to transfer to Philip, his 
lawful heir ; and to serve him with the same loyalty and 
zeal which they had manifested, during so long a course of 
years, in support of his government. 

Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoul- 
der of the Prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand 
without support, he addressed himself to the audience ; and 
from a paper which he held in his hand, in order to assist 
his memory, he recounted with dignity, but without osten- 



Sect. IV.] READING. ui 

tation, all the great things which he had undertaken and 
performed, since the commencement of his administration. 
He observed, that from the seventeenth } r ear of his age, he 
had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public ob- 
jects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of 
his ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private plea- 
sure ; that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visi- 
ted Germany nine times, Spain six times, France four 
times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries ten times, Eng- 
land twice, Africa as often, and had made eleven voyages 
by sea ; that, while his health pemitted him to discharge 
his duty, and the vigour of his constitution was equal, in 
any degree, to the arduous office of governing such exten- 
sive dominions, he had never shunned labour, nor repined 
under fatigue ; that now, when his health was broken, and 
his vigour exhausted., by the rage of an incurable distemper, 
his growing infirmities admonished him to retire ; nor was 
he so fend of xe-igning as to retain the sceptre in an impo- 
tent hand, which was no longer able to protect his subjects, 
or to render them happy ; that, instead of a sovereign wora 
out with disease, and scarce!}' half alive, he gave them one 
in the prime cf life, accustomed already to £OTenu and who 
added to the vigour of youth, all the attention and sagacity 
of maturer years ; that if, during the course of a long admin- 
istration, he had committed any material error in govern- 
ment, or if, under the pressure of so many, and great affairs, 
and amidst the attention which he had been obliged to give 
them, he had either neglected or injured any of his subjects, 
he now implored their forgiveness ; that, for his part, he 
should ever retain a grateful sense of their fidelity and at- 
tachment, and would carry the remembrance of it along 
with him to the place of his retreat, as the sweetest conso- 
lation, as well as the best reward for all his services, and 
in his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth his 
ardent wishes for all their welfare. 

Then, turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees, and 
kissed his father's hand, " If," says he, " I had left you, by 
my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such j 
large additions, some regard would have been justly due to , 
my memory on that account ; but now, when I voluntarily 
resign to you what I might have still retained, I may well 
expect the warmest expressions of thanks on your part. 
With these, however, I dispense ; and shall consider }~our i 
concern for the welfare of your subjects* and voir love o£ ] 



142 LESSONS IN [Part 1. 

them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of your 
gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtu- 
ous administration, to justify the extraordinary proof, which 
I this day give, of my paternal affection, and to demon- 
strate that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose 
in you. Preserve an inviolable regard for religion ; main- 
tain the catholic faith in its purity ; let the laws of your 
country be sacred in your eyes ; encroach not on the rights 
and privileges of your people ; and, if the time shall ever 
come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of a pri- 
vate life, may you have a son endowed with such qualities, 
that you can resign your sceptre to him, with as much 
satisfaction as I give up mine to you.'" 

As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his 
subjects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, 
exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of such an ex- 
traordinary effort. During this discourse, the whole audi- 
ence melted into tears ; some, from admiration of his mag- 
nanimity ; others, softened by the expressions of tenderness 
towards his son, and of love to his people ; and all were af- 
fe^ted with the deepest sorrow, at losing a sovereign, who 

had distinguished the Netherlands, his native country, with 
particular marks of his regard and attachment. 

A few weeks thereafter, Charles, in an assembly no less 
splendid, and with a ceremonial equally pompous, resigned 
to his son the crown of Spain, with all the territories depen- 
ding on them, both in the old, and in the new world. Of all 
these vast possessions, he reserved nothing for himself but 
an annual pension of a hundred thousand crowns, to defray 
the charges of bis family, and to afford him a small sum for 
acts of beneficence and charity. 

The place he had chosen for his retreat, was the monas- 
ter}^ of St. Justus, in the province of Estremadura. It was 
seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, 
and surrounded by rising grounds, covered with lofty trees. 
From the nature of the soli, as well as the temperature of 
the climate, it was esteemed the most healthful and deli- 
cious situation in Spain. Some months before his resigna- 
tion^ he had sent an architect thither, to add a new apart- 
ment to the monastery, for his accommodation ; but he 
gave strict orders, that the style of the building should be 
such as suited his present situation, rather than his former' 
dignity* It consisted only of six rooms ; four of them in the 
form of friars' cells, with naked walls; the other two, each 



Sect. IV.] READING. 143 

twenty feet square, were hung with Drown cloth, and fur- 
nished in the most simple manner. They were all on a 
level with the ground ; with a door on one side into a gar- 
den, of which Charles himself had given the plan, and which 
he had filled with various plants, intending to cultivate 
them with his own hands. On the other side, they com- 
municated with the chapel of the monastery, in which he 
was to perform his devotions. Into this humble retreat, 
hardly sufficient for the comfortable accommodation of a 
private gentleman, did Charles enter, with twelve domestics 
only. He buried there, in solitude and silence, his gran- 
deur and his ambition, together with all those vast projects, 
which, during half a century, had alarmed and agitated 
Europe, filling every kingdom in it by turns, with the terror 
of his arms, and the dread of being subjected to his power. 

VI. — Importance of Virtue. 

VIRTUE is of intrinsic value, and good desert, and 
of indispensable obligation ; not the creature of will, but 
necessary and immutable ; not local or temporary, but of 
equal extent and antiquity with the Divine mind ; not a 
mode of sensation, but everlasting truth ; not dependent on 
power, but the guide of all power. Virtue is the foundation 
of honour and esteem, and the source of all beauty, order 
and happiness in nature. It is what confers value on all 
the other endowments and qualities of a reasonable being, 
to which they ought to be absolutely subservient ; and with- 
out which, the more eminent they are, the more hideous 
deformities, and the greater curses, they become. 

The use of it is not confined to any one stage of our exist- 
ence, or to any particular situation we can be in, but reaches 
through all the periods and circumstances of our beings. 
Many of the endowments and talents we now possess, and 
of which we are too apt to be proud, will cease entirely with 
the present state ; but this will be our ornament and dig- 
nity, in every future state, to which we may be removed. 
Beauty and wit will die, learning will vanish away, and all 
the arts of life be 90on forgot ; but virtue will remain for- 
ever. This unites us to the w r hole rational creation ; and 
fits us for conversing with any order of superior natures, and 
for a place in any part of God's works. It procures us the 
approbation and love of all wise and good beings, and ren- 
ders them our allies and friends. But what is of unspeakr- 
ably greater gonsequeacfy is, that It makes God our friend f 



14* LESSONS IN |Pakt I. 

-assimilates and unites our minds to Ms, and engages his 
Almightj r power in our defence. Superior beings of all 
ranks are bound by it, no less than ourselves. It has the 
■same authority in all worlds that it has in this. The fur- 
ther any being is advanced in excellence and perfection, the 
greater is his attachment to it, and the more is he under its 
influence. — To say no more, it is the law of the whole uni- 
verse ; it stands first in the estimation of the Deity; its 
original is his nature ; and it is the very object that makes 
him lovely. 

Such is the importance of virtue.— Of what consequence, 
therefore, is it, that we practise it? There is no argument 
or motive, in any respect fitted to influence a reasonable 
mind, which does not call us to this. One virtuous dispo- 
sition of soul, is preferable to the greatest natural accom- 
plishments and abilities, and of more value than all the trea- 
sures of the world. — If you are wise, then study virtue, and 
contemn every thing that can come in competition with it- 
Remember that nothing else deserves one anxious thought 
or wish. Remember that this alone is honour, glory, wealth, 
and happiness. Secure this, and you secure every thing. 
Lose this, and all is lost. 

VII. — Address to Art 

O ART ! thou distinguishing attribute and honour of hu- 
man kind ! Who art not only able to imitate nature in her 
graces, but even to adorn her with graces of thine own! Pos- 
sessed of thee, the meanest genius grows deserving, and has 
a just demand for a portion of our esteem ; devoid of thee, 
the brightest of our kind lie lost and useless, and are but 
poorly distinguished from the most despicable and base. 
When we inhabited forests, in common with brutes, not 
otherwise known from them, than by the figure of our spe- 
cies, thou taughtest us to assert the sovereignty of our na- 
ture, and to assume that empire for which Providence in- 
tended us. Thousands of utilities owe their birth to thee ; 
thousands of elegancies, pleasures, and joys, without which t 
life itself would be but an insipid possession. 

Wide and extensive is the reach of thy dominion. No 
element is there, either so violent or so subtle', so yielding or 
so sluggish, as by the powers of its nature to be superior to 
thy direction. Thou dreadest not the fierce impetuosity of 
fire, but corapellest its violence to be both obedient and 
tt&eful. By it,, thou softenest the stubborn tribe ot mifie- 



SECT 



iv.l ftBAMKil 'm 



rale; so as to be formed and moulded into -shapes innumera- 
ble. Hence weapons, armotnr, coin ; and, previous to these 
?nd thy other works and energies, hence all those various 
tools and instruments which empower thee to proceed to 
fariher ends more excellent. Nor is the subtile air less obe* 
rlient to thy power, whether thou wiliest it to be a minister 
to our pleasure or utility. At thy command it give th birth 
to stands, which charm the soul with all the powers of har- 
mony. Under thy instruction, it moves the ship over the 
; while that yielding element, where otherwise we sink, 
even water itself, is by thee taught to bear us ; the vast 
ocean^ to p ornote that intercourse of nations which igno- 
rance would imagine it was designed to intercept. To say 
how thy influence is seen on earth, would be to teach the 
me ■ what he knows already. Suffice it but to mention, 
lie. able and pasture; lawns, and groves, and gar- 

dens, arid plantations; cottages, villages, castles, towns, 
palaces, temples, and spacious cities; 

Nor does thy empire end in subjects thus inanimate. Its 
power also extends through the various race of animals, who 
either patiently submit to become thy slaves, or are sure to 
find thee an irresistible foe. The faithful dog, the patient 
ox, the generous horse, and the mighty elephant, are con- 
tent all to receive their instructions from thee, and readily 
to lend their natural instinct or strength, to perform those 
offices which thy occasions call for. If there be found any 
species which are serviceable when dead, thou suggestest 
the means to investigate and take them ; if any be so sa- 
vage as to refuse being tamed, or of natures tierce enough to 
venture an attack, thou teachest us to scorn their brutal 
rage ; to meet, repel, pursue, and conquer. 

Such, O Art, is thy amazing influence, when thou art em- 
ployed only on these inferior subjects, on natures inanimate, 
or at best irrational. But, whenever thou choosest a subject 
more noble, and settest to the cultivation of mind itself, then 
it is thou becomest truly amiable and divine — the ever-ilow* 
ing source of those sublimer beauties, of which no subject 
but mind alone is capable. Then it is thou art enabled to 
exhibit to mankind the admired tribes of poets and orators ; 
the sacred train of patriots and heroes ; the godlike list of 
philosophers and legislators ; the forms of virtuous and 
equal politics ; where private welfare is made the same with 
puMic — where crowds themselves prove disinterested, and 
virtue is made a national and popular characteristic* 
JX 



MG . LESSONS IN [Part I. 

Hail, sacred source of all these wonders ! thyself instruct 
me to praise thee worthily ; through whom, whatever we do, 
is done with elegance and beauty ; without whom, what we 
do is ever graceless and deformed. Venerable power ! by 
what name shall I address thee ? Shall I call thee Ornament 
of the Mind, or art thou more truly Mind itself? It is Mind 
thou art, most perfect Mind ; Not rude, untaught ; but fair 
and polished. In such thou dweUest ; — of such thou art 
the form ; nor is it a thing more possible to separate thee 
from such, than it would be to separate thee from thy own 
existence. 

VIII. — Flattery. 

FLATTERY is a manner of conversation very shameful 
in itself, but beneficial to the flatterer. 

If a flatterer is upon a public walk with you, " Do but 
mind," says he, " how every one's eye is upon you. Sure, 
there is not a man in Athens that is taken so much notice 
itf. You had justice done you yesterday in* the portico. 
There were above thirty of us together ; and, the question 
being started, who was the most considerable person in the 
commonwealth — the whole company was of the same side. 
In short. Sir, every one made familiar with your name." 
He follows this whisper with a thousand other flatteries of 
the same nature. 

Whenever the person to whom be would make his court, 
begins to speak, the sycophant begs the company to be si- 
lent, most impudently praises him to his face, is in rap- 
tures all the while he talks, and as soon as he has done, 
«"ries out, "That is perfectly right!" When his patron 
aims at being witty upon any man, he is read> r to burst at 
the smartness of his raillery, and stops his mouth with his 
handkerchief, that he may not laugh out. If he calls his 
children about him, the flatterer has a pocket full of apples 
for them, which he distributes among them with a great 
deal of fondness ; wonders to see so many fine boys ; and 
turning about to the father, tells him they are all as like 
him as they can stare. 

When he is invited to a feast, he is the first man that 
calls for a glass of wine, and is wonderfully pleased with 
the deliciousness of the flavour ; gets as near as possible to 
the man of the house, and tells him, with much concern, 
that he eats nothing himself. He singles out some particu- 
lar dish, and recommends it to the rest of the compan} r for a 
rarity. He desires the master of the feast to set in a warmer. 



Sect. IV.] EEADlNO. HI 

part cf the room, begs him to take more care of Lis health- 
and advises him to put on a supernumerary garment in this 
cold weather. He is in a close whisper with him during the 
whole entertainment, and has neither eyes nor ears for any 
one else in the company. 

If a man shows him his house, he extols the architect, 
admires the gardens, and expatiates upon the furniture. 
If the owner Is grossly flattered in a picture, he out-flatters 
the painter; and though he discovers a great likeness in it, 
can by no means allow that it dees justice to the original. 
In short, his whole business is to ingratiate himself with 
those who hear him, and to wheedle them cut of their senses. 

IX.— The Absent Man, 

MENACLES comes down in the morning ; opens his 
door to go out ; hut shuts it again, because he perceives he 
has his night-cap on ; and examining himself further, finds 
that he is but half shaved, that he has stuck Lis sword on 
bis right side, that his stockings are about his heals, and 
that his shirt is over his breeches. 

When he is dressed, he goes to court ; comes into the 
drawing-room ; and, walking upright under a branch of 
candlesticks, his wig is caught up by one cf them, and 
hangs dangling in the air. All the courtiers fall a laugh- 
ing ; but Mcnacles laughs louder than any of them, and 
looks about for the person that is the jest of the company. 
Coming down to the court gate, he finds a coach ; which 
taking for his own, he whips into it ; and the coachman 
drives off, not doubting but he carries his master. As soon as 
he stops, Menacles throws himself out of the coach, crosses 
ihe court, ascends the stair-case, and runs through all the 
chambers with the greatest familiarity, reposes himself on 
a couch, and fancies himself at home. The master of the* 
house at last comes in. Menacles rises to receive him, and 
glesires him to sit down. He talks, muses, and then talks 
again. The gentlemen cf the house is tired and amazed. 
Menacles is no less so ; hut is every moment in hopes that 
his impertinent guest will at last end his tedious visit. 
Night comes on, when Menacles is hardly convinced. 

When he is playing at back-gammon, he calls for a full 
glass of wine and water. It is his turn to throw. He has 
the box in one hand, and his glass in the other; and, being 
extremely dry, and unwilling to lose time, he swallows down 
both the dice, and at the same time throws his wine into 



148 1ESS0N3 iBf [Part 1 

the frpidft Kc writes a letter, and flings the sand into the 
ink-bottle. He writes a second, and mistakes the super- 
scription. A nobleman receives one of them, and upon 
opening it, reads as follows :— " I would have you, honest 
Jack, immediately upon the receipt of this, take in hay 
enough to serve the winter." His farmer receives the other, 
•and is amazed to see in it, " My lord, I received your 
Graced commands." 

If he is at an entertainment, you may see the pieces of 
bread continually multiplying round his plate ; 'tis true the 
company want it, as well as their knives and forks, which 
Bienacles does not let them keep long. Sometimes, in a 
morning he puts his whole family in a hurry, and at last goes 
out, without being able to stay for his coach or breakfast ; 
and for that day, yon may see him in every part of the town*, 
except in the very place where he had appointed to be upon* 
business of importance. 

You would often take him for every thing that he is not. 
For a fellow quite stupid, roc he hears nothing ; for a fool, 
ior he talks to himself, and has a hundred grimaces and 
motions with his head, which are altogether involuntary ;- 
ior a proud man, lor he looks full upon you, and takes no 
notice of your saluting him. The truth of it is, Ids eyes are 
open, but he makes no use of them, and neither sees yon, 
nor any man, nor any thing else. He came once from his 
country-house, and his own footmen undertook to rob him, 
and succeeded. They held a flambeau to his throat, and 
hid him deliver his purse. He did so ; and coming home 
told his friends he had been robbed. They desired to 
know the particulars. — u Ask my servants," said Menacles. 
si for they were with me." 

X.— The Monk, 

A POOR Monk of the order of St. Francis, came into 
the room to beg something for his convent. The moment 
I cast my eyes upon him, I was determined not to give 
Mm a single sous; and accordingly, I put my purse into 
ray pocket — buttoned it up — set myself a little more upon 
my centre, and advanced up gravely to him ; there was 
something, I fear, forbidding in my look ; I have Ids picture 
this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in 
it, which deserved better. 

The Monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, 
a few scattered white hairs unon his temples being all frhac 



Sect. IV.] HEADING. %M 

remained of it, might be about seventy but from Iiis 

eyes, and that sort of tire that was in them, which seemed 
more tempered by courtesy than years, could be no more 
than sixty — Truth might lie between. lie was certainly 
sixty-five ; and the general air of his countenance, notwith- 
standing something seemed to have been planting wrinkles 
in it before their time, agreed to the account. 

It was one of those heads which Guide has often painted 
— mild, pale, penetrating ; free from all common-place 
ideas of fat contented ignorance, looking downwards upon 
the earth. It looked forward ; but looked as if it looked 
at something beyond this world. How one of his order 
came by it, heaven above, who let it fall upon a Monk's 
shoulders, best knows ; but it would have suited a Bramin ; 
and had I met it upon the plains of Indostan, I had rever- 
enced it. 

The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes ; 
one might put it into the hands of any one to design ; for it 
was neither elegant nor otherwise, but as character and 
expression made it so. It was a thin, spare form, something 
above the common size, if it lost net the distinction by a 
bend forward in the figure — but it was the attitude of en- 
treaty ; and, as it now stands present to my imagination, it 
gained more than it lost by it. 

When he had entered the room three paces, he stood 
still ; and laying his left hand upon his breast, (a slender 
white staff with which he journeyed being in his right) when 
I had got close up to him, he introduced himself with the 
little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty oi 
his order — and did it with so simple a grace, and such an 
air of deprecation was there in the whole cast of his look 
and figure — I was bewitched not to have been struck with it 

A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give 

him a single sous. 

'Tis very true, said I, replying to a cast upwards with 
his eyes, with w r hich he had concluded his address — His very 
true — and heaven be their resource, who have no other but 
the charity of the world ; the stock of which, I fear, is no 
way sufficient for the many great claims which are hourly 
made upon it. 

As I pronounced the words great claims, he gave a slight 

glance with his eyes downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic 

— I felt the full force of the appeal — 1 acknowledge it, said 

I — a coarse habit, and that but once in three years, with 

N 2 



i E$ LESSONS IN [Part I 

a meagre diet — -are no great matters ; but the true point of 
pity is, as they can be earned in the world with so little in- 
dustry, that your order should wish to procure them by 
pressing upon a fund, which is the property of the lame, 
the blind, the aged, and the infirm ; — the captive, who lies 
down counting over and over again, in the days of his aillic* 
tion, languishes also for his share of it; and had you been 
of the order of mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, 
poor as I am, continued I, pointing at my portmanteau, full 
cheerfully should it have been opened to you, for the ran- 
som of the unfortunate. The Monk made me a bow. But, 
resumed I, the unfortunate of our own county, surely have 
the first rights ; and I have left thousands in distress upon 
the English shore. The Monk gave a cordial wave with 
his head — as much as to say, JSTo doubt ; there is misery 
enough in every corner of the world as well as within oui* 
convent. But we distinguish, said I, laying my hand upon 
the sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal— we distin- 
guish, my good father, betwixt those who wish only to eat 
the bread of their own labour — and those who eat the bread 
•f other people's, and have no other plan in life, but to get 
through it in sloth and ignorance,. /or the love of God. 

The poor Franciscan made no reply ; a hectic of a mo* 
meat passed across his cheek, but could not tarry. — Nature 
seemed to have done with her resentments in him. He show- 
ed none — but letting his staff fall within his arm, he pressed 
both his hands with resignation on his breast, and retired. 

My heart smote me the moment he shut the door. — —* 
Pshaw ! said I, with an air of carelessness, three several 
times. But it would not do ; — -every ungracious syllable I 
kad uttered, crowded back in my imagination. I reflect* 
ed I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny 
him ; and that the punishment of that was enough to the 
disappointed, without the addition of unkind language — I 
considered his gray hairs, his courteous figure seemed to re- 
enter, and gently ask me what injury he had done me, and 
why I could use him thus ? — I would have given twenty 
livres for an advocate — I have behaved very ill, said I with- 
in myself; but I have only just set out upon my travels* 
and shall learn better manners as I got along. 

XI. — On the Head-dress of the Ladies. 
THERE is not so variable a thing in nature, as a ladyV 
Scad-dress; withza my own memory, I have known it rise 



Bzcr. IV.] READING 151 

and fall above thirty degrees, About ten years ago it shot 
up to a i e* v - re it ! bt, inso&mc& that the female part of 
our spe< much taller than [he men. The women 

were of such an enormous stature, that " we appeared as 
gras 'S before them."' At present, the whole sex is 

in a manner dwarfed, and shrunk into a race of beauties, 
that seem almost another species. 1 remember several la- 
dies who were once very near seven feet high, that at present 
want some inches of rive : How they came to be thus cur- 
tailed, I cannot learn : whether the whole sex be at present 
under any penance which we know nothing* of, or whether 
they have cast their head-dresses, in order to surprise us with: 
something in that kind which shall be entirely new ; or 
whether some of the tallest of the sex, being- tco cunning fer- 
ine rest, have contrived this method to make themselves ap- 
pear sizeable, is still a secret ; though I find most are of 
opinion, they are at present like trees new lopped and prun- 
ed, that will certainly sprout out, and llourkh with greater- 
heads than beibre, For my own part, as I do not Ioyq to 
be insulted by women who are taller than myself, I admire 
the sex much more in their present humiliation, which h&s 
reduced them to their natural dimensions, than when they 
had extended their persons, and lengthened themselves out 
into formidable and gigantic figures. I am not for adding 
to the beautiful edihees of nature, nor for raising any whim- 
sical superstructure upon her plans: I must therefore repeat 
it, that I am highly pleased with the coifure now in fash- 
ion, and think it shows the good sense which at present vary 
much reigns among the valuable part of the sex. One may 
observe that women in ail ages hare taken more pams than 
men to adorn the outside of their heads ; ana indeed I xery 
much admire, that those architects, who raise such power- 
ful structures out tff ribands, lace, and wire, have not been, 
recorded for their respective inventions. It is certain there 
have been as many orders in these kind of building 



s 5 ^ 



those which have been made of marble ; sometimes they 
rise in the shape of a pyramid, sometimes like a tower, and 
sometimes like a steeple. In Juvenal's time, the building' 
grew by several orders and stories, as he has very humour- 
ously described it : — 

"With curls on curls they build her head before, 
And mount it with a formidable tow^r ; 

A giantess she seems ; but look behind^ 
And thea she dwindles to the piguiy kind-, 



im LESSONS IN' , [Part t 

But I do not remember, in any part of my reading, that 
the head-dress aspired to so great an extravagance, as in 
the fourteenth century ; when li was built up in a couple 
of cones or spires, which stood so excessively high on each 
side of the head, that a woman, who was but a pigmy with- 
out her head-dress, appeared like a Colossus upon putting 
it on. Monsieur Paradin says, u That these old-fashioned 
fontages rose an ell above the head, that they were point- 
ed like steeples, and had long loose pieces of crape fastened 
to the tops of them, which were curiously fringed, and hung 
down their backs like streamers." 

The women might possibly have carried this Gothic 
building much higher, had not a famous monk, Thomas 
Connecte by name, attacked it with great zeal and resolu- 
tion. This holy man travelled from place to place, to 
preach down this monstrous commode : and "succeeded so 
well in it, that, as the magicians sacrificed their books to 
the flames, upon the preaching of an apostle, many of the 
women threw down their head-dresses in the middle of his 
sermon, and made a bonfire of them within sight of the 
pulpit. He was so renowned, as well for the sanctity of his 
life, as his manner of preaching, that he had often a con* 
gregation of twenty thousand people t — the men placing 
themselves on the one side of his pulpit ; and the women on 
the other — they appeared, to use the similitude of an inge- 
nious writer, like a forest of cedars, with their heads reach 
ing to the clouds. He so warmed and animated the peo 
pie against this monstrous ornament, that it lay under a 
kind of persecution ; and whenever it appeared in public, 
was pelted down by the rabble, who flung stones at the per- 
sons who wore it. But, notwithstanding this prodigy van- 
ished while the preacher was among them, it began to ap- 
pear again some months after his departure ; or to tell it 
in Monsieur Paradin's own words, ** The women, that like 
snails in a fright, had drawn in their horns, shot them out 
again as soon as the danger was over.'" This extrava- 
gance of the women's head-dresses in that age, is taken 
notice of by Monsieur d'Argentre, in the history of Bre- 
tange, and by other historians, as well as the person I have 
here quoted. 

It is usually observed, that a good reign is the only prof 
per time for the making of laws against the exorbitance of 
power ; in the same manner, an excessive head-dress may 
be attacked the most effectually when the fashion is against 



#ect. IV.] READING. m 

it, I do therefore recommend this paper to my female 
reader?, by way of prevention. 

I would desire the fair sex to consider how impossible it 
is for thorn to add any thing that can be ornamental, to 
what is already the master-piece of nature. The head has 
the most beautiful appearance, as well as the highest station 
in the human figure. Nature has laid out all her art in 
beautifying the face ; she has touched it with vermilion ; 
planted in it a double row of ivory ; made it the seat of 
smiles and blushes ; lighted it up, and enlivened it with the 
brightness of the eyes ; hung- it on each side with curious 
organs of sense ; given it airs and graces that cannot be de- 
scribed ; and surrounded it with such a rlowing shade of 
hair, as seta all its beauties in the most agreeable light; in 
short, she seems to have designed the head as the cupola 
to the most glorious of her works : and when we load it 
with such a pile of supernumerary ornaments, we destroy 
the symmetry of the human figure, and foolishly contrive 
to call or! the e}'e from great and real beauties 3 to childish 
jaws, ribands, and bone-lace. 



ff/>',yo , n 



X1L— On the Present and a Future Siaie. 

A LEWD young fel!ow r seeing an aged hermit go by 

him barefoot, " Father,* 7 says he, 4i you are in a very mise- 
rable condition, W there is not another world/ ' " True, 
son,* 5 said the hermit ; " but what is thy condition if there 
is ? : *-— Man is a creature dc-igned for two different stales 01 
being, or rather for two different lives. His first life is short 
and transient; his second permanent and lasting. The 
question we are ail concerned in, is this — In which of these 
two lives is it our chief interest to make ourselves happy ? 
Or, in other words — Whether we should endeavour to se- 
cure to ourselves the pleasures and gratifications of a lite, 
which is uncertain and precarious, and at its utmost length, 
of a very inconsiderable duration ; or to secure to ourselves 
the pleasures of a life which is fixed and settled, and will 
never end ? Every man, upon the first hearing of this ques- 
tion, knows very well which side of it he ought to close with. 
But however right we are in theory, it is plain, that in prac- 
tice we adhere to the wrong side of the question. Wo make 
provision tor this life as though it were never to have an 
end; and for the other life, as though it were never U 
have a bea"iimiiig\ 



1M LESSONS IN [Part! 

Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger to hu- 
man nature, accidentally alight upon the earth and take a 
survey of its kihabitarits — What would his notions of us be ? 
Would he not think that we are a species of beings made 
for quit© different ends and purposes than what we really 
are ? Must he not imagine that we were placed in this world 
to get riches and honours? Would he not think that it was 
our duty to toil after wealth, and station, and title? Nay, 
would he not believe we were forbidden poverty, by threats 
of eternal punishment, and enjoined to pursue our pleasures, 
under pain of damnation ? He would certainly imagine that 
we were influenced by a scheme of duties quite opposite to 
those which are indeed prescribed to us. And, truly, ac- 
cording to such an imagination, he must conclude that we 
are a species of the most obedient creatures in the universe ; 
that we are constant to our duty ; and that we keep a steady 
eye on the end for which we were sent thither. 

But how great would be his astonishment, when he learnt 
that we were beings not designed to exist in this world above 
threescore and ten years ; and that the greatest part of this 
busy species fail short even of that age ! How would he be 
lost in horror and admiration, when he should know that 
this set of creatures, who lay oat ail their endeavours for this 
life, which scarce deserves the name of existence, when, 1 
say, he should know that this set of creatures are to exist to 
all eternity in another life, for which they make no prepa- 
rations ? Nothing cam be a greater disgrace to reason, than 
that men, who are persuaded of these two different states oi 
being, should be perpetually employed in providing for a 
life of threescore and ten years, and -neglecting to make 
provision for that, which, after many myriads of years, will 
fee still new, and still beginning ; especially when we con- 
sider, that our endeavours for limldng ourselves great, or 
rich, or honourable, or whatever else we place our happiness 
in, may, after all, prove unsuccessful ; whereas, if we con- 
stantly and sincerely endeavour to make ourselves happy in 
the other life, we are sure that our endeavours will succeed, 
and that we shall not be disappointed of our hope. 

The following question is started by one of our school- 
men. Supposing the whole body of the earth were a great 
ball or mass of the finest sand, and that a single grain or 
particle of this sand should be annihilated evi-ry thousand 
years? — Supposing, then, that you had it in your choice to 
be happy all the while this prodigious mass of sand wa&coft* 



Sect. IV.] READING. 155 

sumiiig, by this slew method, until there was- not a grain 
left, on condition that you were to be miserable for ever af- 
ter 1 Or, supposing that you might be happy for ever after, 
on condition you would be miserable until the whole mass 
of sand were thus annihilated, at the rate of one sand in a 
thousand years ; which of these two cases would you make 
your choice? 

It must be confessed in this case, so many thousands of 
years are to Vae imagination as a kind of eternity, though in 
reality, they do not bear so great a proportion to that dura- 
tion which is to follow them, as an unit does to the greatest 
number which you can put together in figures, or as one of 
those sands to the supposed heap. Reason therefore tells 
us, without any manner of hesitation, which would be the 
better part in this choice. However, as I have before inti- 
mated, our reason might, in such a case, be so overset by 
imagination, as to dispose some persons to sink under the 
consideration of the great length of the first part of this du- 
ration, and of the great distance of that second duration 
which is to succeed it ; — the mind, I say, might give itself 
up to that happiness which is at hand, considering that it is 
so very near, and that it would last so very long. But when 
the choice we have actually before us is this — Whether we 
will choose to be happy for the space of only threescore and 
ten, nay, perhaps of only twenty or ten years, I might say 
for only a day or an hour, and miserable to all eternity ; or, 
on the contrary, miserable for this short term of years, and 
happy for a whole eternity- — what words are sufficient to 
express that folly and want of consideration, which, in such 
case, makes a wrong choice ! 

I here put the case even at the worst, by supposing what 
seldom happens, that a course of virtue makes us miserable 
in this life : But if we suppose, as it generally happens, 
that virtue would make us more happy, even in this Hie, 
than a contrary course of vice, how can we sufficiently ad- 
mire the stupidity or madness of those persons who are 
capable of making so absurd a choice ? 

Every wise man, therefore, will consider this life only as 
it may conduce to the happiness of the other, and cheerfully 
sacrifice the pleasures of a few years, to those of an eternity. . 

XIII. — Uncle Tobys Benevolence. 
MY uncle Toby was a man patient of injuries — not from 
want of courage. I have told you> in a former chapter, that 



Ih6 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

he was a man of courage; and I will add here, that, where 
just occasions presented, or called it forth, I know no man 
under whose arm 1 would have sooner taken shelter. Nor 
did this arise from any insensibility or obtuseness of his in- 
tellectual parts, for he felt as feelingly as a man could do. 
But he was of a peaceful, placid nature ; no jarring element 
in him ; all were mixed up so kindly within him, my uncle 
Tohy had scarce a heart to retaliate upon a fly. 

Go— says he, one day at dinner, to an overgrown one 
which had buzzed about his nose, and tormented him cru- 
elly all dinner-time, and which, after infinite attempts, he 
had caught at last as it flew by him—- 111 not hurt thee— 
says my uncle Toby, rising from his chair, and going across 
the room with the fiy m his hand— I'll not hurt a hair of 
thy head : Go, says he, lifting up the sash, and opening his 
■hand as he spoke, to let it escape— go, peer devil; get thee 
gone : Why should I hurt thee '?— This World is surely wide 
enough to hold both thee and me. 

This lesson of universal good will, taught by my uncle 
Toby ; may serve instead of a whole volume upon the subject. 

XIV. —Story of ike Siege of Calais. 

EDWARD III, after the battle of Cressy, laid siege to 
Calais. He had fortified his camp hi so impregnable a man- 
ner, that all the efforts of France proved ineffectual to raise 
the siege, or throw succours into the city. — The citizens, 
under Count Yieune, their gallant governor, made an admi« 
rable defence. — France had now put the sickle into her se- 
cond harvest, since Edward, with his victorious army, sat 
down before the town. The eyes of ail Europe were intent 
on the issue. At length famine did more for Edward than 
arms. After suffering unheard-of calamities, they resolved 
to attempt the enemy's camp, They boldly sallied forth ; 
the English joined battle ; and, after a long and desperate 
engagement, Count Yienne was taken prisoner, and the 
citizens who survived the slaughter, retired within their 
gates. The command devolving upon Eustace St. Pierre f 
a man of mean birth, but of exalted virtue ; he offered to 
capitulate with Edward, provided he permitted him to de- 
part with life and liberty. Edward, to avoid the imputa-* 
tion of cruelty, consented to spare the bulk of the plebeians, 
provided they delivered up to him six of their principal 
citizens, with halters about their necks, as victims of due 
atonement for that spirit of rebellion, with which they had 



Steer. tV,] .HEADING, )$i 

inflamed the vulgar, When his messenger, Sir Walter 
Manny, delivered the terms* consternation and pale dismay 
were impressed on every countenance, To a long and dead 
silence, deep sighs and groans succeeded, till Eustace St. 
Pierre, g&it'mg up to a little eminence, thus addressed the 
assembly: — "My friends, we are brought to great straits 
this day. We must either yield to the terms of our cruel 
a ad ensnaring conqueror, or give up cur tender infants, our 
wives and daughters, to the bloody and brutal lusts of the 
violating soldiers, is there any expedient left, whereby we 
may avoid the guilt and infamy of delivering up those who 
have suffered every misery with you, on the one hand ; — or 
the desolation and horror of a sacked city on the other? 
There is, my friends ; there is one expedient left ; a gra- 
cious, an excellent, a godlike expedient ! Isihere any here 
to whom virtue is dearer than life ? — Let him offer himself 
an oblation for the safety of his people ! He shall not fail of 
"a blessed approbation from that Power, who offered up his 
only Son, for the salvation of mankind."' He spoke — but 
an universal silence ensued. Each man looked around for 
the example of that virtue and magnanimity, which all wish- 
ed to approve in themselves^ though they wanted the reso- 
lution. At length St. Pierre resumed, u I doubt not there 
are many here as ready, nay$ more zealous of this martyr- 
dom, than I can be ; though the station to which I am rais- 
ed, by the captivity of Lord Vienne, imparts a right to be 
the first in giving my life for your sakes. I give it freely ; 
« — I give it cheerfully. Who comes next?" " Your son," 
exclaimed a youth, not yet come to maturity. — ■" Ah, my 
child!" cried St. Pierre, " I am then twice sacrificed. — But 
no : — I have rather begotten thee a second time. Thy 
years are few, but full, my son. The victim of virtue has 
reached the utmost purpose and goal of mortality. Who 
next, my friends ? This is the hour of heroes." u Your kins- 
man," cried John de Aire. " Your kinsman," cried James 
Wissant " Your kinsman," cried Peter Wissan£ — " Ah P* 
exclaimed Sir Walter Mauny, bursting into tears, " Why 
was not I a citizen of Calais !" The sixth victim was still 
wanting, but was quickly supplied by lot, from numbers 
who were now emulous of so ennobling an example. The 
keys of the city were then delivered to Sir Waiter. He took 
the six prisoners into his custody ; then ordered the gates t« 
be opened, and gave charge to his attendants to conduct the 
^remaining citizens, with their families, through the Gamp of 
O 



153 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

the English. Before they departed, however, they desired 
permission to take their last adieu of their deliverers. — What 
a parting ! What a scene ! They crowded, with their wives 
and children, about St. Pierre and his fellow prisoners. — • 
They embraced— they clung around — they fell prostrate 
"before them. They groaned — they wept aloud — and the 
joint clamour of their mourning passed the gates of the city, 
and was heard throughout the English camp, The Eng- 
lish, hy this time, were apprized of what passed within Ca- 
lais. They heard the voice of lamentation, and their souls 
were touched with compassion. Each of the soldiers pre- 
pared a portion of his own victuals, to welcome and entertain 
the half-famished inhabitants ; and they loaded them with 
as much as their present weakness was able to bear, in order 
to supply them with sustenance by the way. At length St. 
Pierre and his fellow victims appeared under the conduct 
of Sir Walter and a guard. Ail the tents of the English 
were instantly emptied. The soldiers poured from all parts, 
and arranged themselves on each side, to behold, to con- 
template, to admire, this little band of patriots, as they pass- 
ed. They bowed down to them on all sides. They mur- 
mured their applause of that virtue, which they could not 
but revere, even in enemies ; and they regarded those ropes 
which they had voluntarily assumed about their necks, as, 
ensigns of greater dignity than that of the British garter. — 
As soon as they had reached the presence, " Manny ," says 
the monarch, a are these the principal inhabitants of Ca- 
lais W — " They are," says Mauny : u They are not only 
the principal men of Calais— they are the principal men'oi 
France, my Lord, if virtue has any share in the act of enno- 
bling." " Were they delivered peaceably ?" says Edward. 
4; Was there no resistance, no commotion among the peo- 
ple ?" u Not in the least, my Lord ; the people would all 
have perished, rather than have delivered the least of these 
to your majesty. They are self-delivered, self-devoted ; and 
come to offer up their inestimable heads, as an ample equiv- 
alent for the ransom of thousands." Edward was secretly 
piqued at this reply of Sir Waiter : but he knew the privi- 
ledge of a British subject, and suppressed his resentment. 
u Experience," says he, u has ever shown, that lenity only 
serves to invite people to new crimes. Severity, at times, is 
indispensably necessary to compel subjects to submission, 
by punishment and example. Go," he cried to an offir 
Ctr, " lead these men to execution." •* 



Sect. IV.] ' READING. 159 

At this instant a sound of triumph was heard throughout 
the camp. The queen had just arrived with a powerful 
reinforcement of gallant troops. Sir Walter Manny Hew 
to receive her majesty, and briefly miormed her of the par- 
ticulars respecting the six victims. 

As soon as she had been welcomed fey Edward and his 
court, she de-ured a private audience. — ^My Lord, 55 said 
she, " the question I am to enter upon* is net touching' the 
lives of a lew mechanics- — it respects tee honour of the Eng- 
lish nation : it respects the dory of cay Edward, rny hus- 
band, my king. — You think yen have sentenced six of your 
enemies to death. No, rny Lord, they have sentenced them- 
selves ; and their execution would he the execution of (heir 
own orders, not the orders of Edward. The stage on which 
WiQj would suffer, wceld be to them a stage oi honour, but 



age 01 shame to Edward ; a zeproacn ci 



jSiS 



ble disgrace to his name, — Let us rather disap- 
point these haughty burghers, who wish to invert themselves 
with glory at our expense. We cannot wholly deprive 
them of the merit of a sacrifice so nobly intended, but we 
may cut i)iem short of their desires; in the place of that 
death by which their glory would be consummate, let us 
bury them under gifts ; let us put them to confusion with 
applauses. We shall thereby defeat them of that popular 
opinion, which never fails to attend these who surfer in the 
cause of virtue." — u I am convinced ; you have prevailed. 
— Ee it so," replied Edward : " Prevent the execution ; 
have them instantly before us." — They came ; when the 
queen, with an aspect and accents didYsing sweetness, 
thus bespoke them : — " Natives of France, and inhabitants 
of Calais, you have put us to a vast expense of blood and 
treasure in the recovery of our just, and natural inheritance, 
but you have acted up to the best of an erroneous judg- 
ment ; and we admire and honour in you that valour and 
virtue, by which we are so long kept out of our rightful 
possessions. You noble burghers ! You excellent chizens ■ 
TliGugh you were tenfold the enemies of our persons and 
our throne, we can feel nothing on our part, save respect and 
affection for you. You have been sufficiently tested. We 
loose your .chains ; we snatch you from the scaffold ; and 
we thank you for that lessen of humiliation which you teach 
us, when you show us that excellence h not of blood, of ti- 
tle, or station ; — that virtue gives a dignity superior to that 
of kings ; and that those whom the Almightv informs, with 



it® LESSONS ffl [Part f 

sentiments like yours, are justly and eminently raised above 
all human distinctions. You are now free to depart to your 
kinsfolk, your countrymen, to all those whose lives and 
liberties you have so nobly redeemed, provided you refuse 
not the tokens of our esteem. Yet we would rather bind 
you to ourselves by every endearing obligation ; and for this 
purpose, we offer to you your choice of the gifts and honours 
that Edward has to bestow. — Rivals for fame, but always 
friends to virtue, we wish that England were entitled to call 
you her sons." — u Ah, my country !" exclaimed St. Pierre; 
c; it is now that I tremble for you, Edward only wins oar 
cities, but Philiippa conquers hearts." 



SECTION V. 

I.— -On Grace in Writing. 

I WILL not undertake to mark out, with any sort ©1 
precision, that idea which I would express by the word 
Grace ; and perhaps it can no more be clearly described, 
than justly denned. To give you, however, a general inti- 
mation of what I mean, when I apply that term to composi- 
tions of genius, I would resemble it to that easy air, which 
* so remarkably distinguishes certain persons of a genteel and 
liberal cast. It consists not only in the particular beauty 
of single parts, but arises from the general symmetry and 
construction of the whole. — An author may be just in his 
sentiments, lively in his figures, and clear in his expression ; 
yet may have no claim to be admitted into the rank of finish- 
ed writers. The several members must be so agreeably 
^united, as mutually to reflect beauty upon each other ; their 
arrangement must be so happily disposed, as not to admit 
of the least transposition, without manifest prejudice to 
the entire piece. The thoughts, the metaphors, the allu- 
sions, and the diction, should appear easy and natural, and 
seem to arise like so many spontaneous productions, rather 
than as the effects of art or labour. 

Whatever, therefore, is forced or affected in the senti- 
ments ; whatever is pompous or pedantic in the expression, 
is the very reverse of Grace. Her mien is neither that of a 
prude nor coquette ; she is regular without formalhy, and 
sprightly, without being fantastical. Grace, in short, is to 
good writing, what a proper light is to a fine picture : It not 
only shows all the figures in their several proportions an$ 



Sect. V.] READING. 16'i 

relations, but shows them in the most advantageous man- 
ner. 

As gentility, (to resume my former illustration) appears 
in the minutest action, and improves the most inconsider- 
able gesture ; so grace is discovered in the placing even the 
single word, or the turn of a mere expletive. Neither fe 
this inexpressible quality confined to one species of compa* 
sition only, but extends to all the various kinds ; — to the 
humble pastoral, as well as to the lofty epic ; — from the- 
slightest letter, to the most solemn discourse. 

I know not whether Sir William Temple may not be 
considered as the first of our prose authors, who introduced, 
a graceful manner into our language. At least that qual- 
ity does not seem to have appeared early, or spread far 
among us. But wheresoever we may look for its origin^ 
it is certainly to be found in its highest perfection, in the 
essays of a gentlemen, whose writings will be distinguished 
so long as politeness and good sense have any admirers. 
That becoming air which Tully esteemed the criterion of 
fine composition, and which every reader, he says, imagines 
so easy to be imitated, yet will find so difficult to attain, is 
the prevailing characteristic of all that excellent authors 
most elegant performances. In a word, one may justly ap- 
ply to him what Plato, in his allegorical language, says of 
Aristophanes, that the Graces, having searched all the 
world round for a temple, wherein they might for ever 
dwell, settled at last in the breast of Mr. Addison. 

II. — On the Structure of Animals. 

THOSE who were skilful in anatomy among the ancients,, 
concluded from the outward and inward make of a human* 
body, that it was the work of a being transcendently wise 
and powerful. As the world grew more enlightened in this 
art, their discoveries gave them fresh opportunities of ad- 
miring the conduct of Providence, in the formation of a hu- 
man body. Galen was converted by his dissections, and 
could not but own a Supreme Being, upon a survey of his 
handy work. There were, indeed, many parts of which the- 
old anatomists did not know the certain use ; but as tliey 
saw that most of those which they examined were adapted^ 
with admirable art, to their several functions, they did not 
question but those, whose uses they could not determine, 
were contrived with the same wisdom, for respective ends 
.and purposes. Since the circulation of the blood has beeft 
O 2 



iS2 LESSONS IN [Part L 

found out, and many other great discoveries have been 
made by our modern anatomists, we see new wonders in the 
human frame, and discern several important uses for those 
parts, which uses the ancients knew nothing of. In short, 
the body of man is such a subject, as stands the utmost test 
of examination. Though it appears formed with the nicest 
*v isdom, upon the most superficial survey of it, it still mends 
upon the search, and produces our surprise and amazement, 
in proportion as we pry into it. What 1 have here said of 
a human bodj^, may be applied to the body of eA'crj ani- 
mal, which has been the subject of anatomical observations. 

The body of an animal is an object adequate to our 
senses. It is a particular system of Providence, that lies 
in a narrow compass. The eye is able to command it ; and, 
by successive inquiries, can search into all its parts. Could 
the body of the whole earth, or indeed the whole universe, 
be thus submitted to the examination of our senses, were i£ 
not too big and disproportioned for our inquiries, too un- 
wieldly for the management of the eye and hand, there is 
no question but it would appear to us, as curious and well 
contrived a frame as that of a human body. We should 
see the same concatenation and subservienc}', the same ne- 
cessity and usefulness, the same beauty and harmony, in all 
and every of its parts, as what we discover in the body of 
every single animal. 

The more extended our reason is, and the more able to 
grapple with immense objects, the greater still are those dis- 
coveries which it makes, of wisdom and providence, in the 
works of creation. A Sir Isaac Newton, who staiids up 
as the miracle of the present age, can look through a whole 
planetary system; consider it in its w r eight, number and 
measure ; and draw from it as many demonstrations of in- 
finite power and wisdom, as a more confined understanding 
is able to deduce from the system of a human body. 

But to return to our speculations on anatomy, I shall 
here consider the fabric and texture of the bodies of ani- 
mals in one particular view, which, in my opinion, shows 
the hand of a thinking and all-wise Being in their formation, 
with the evidence of a thousand demonstrations. 1 think 
we may lay this down as an incontested principle, that 
chance never acts in a perpetual uniformity and consistence 
with itself. If one should always fling the same number 
with ten thousand dice, or see every throw just rive times 
less or five times more 3 in number, than the throw which 



Sect. V.] READING. 163 

immediately preceded it, who would not imagine there 
was some invisible power which directed the cast I This 
is the proceeding which we find in the operations of nature. 
Every kind of animal is diversified by different magnitudes, 
each of which gives rise to a different species. Let a man 
trace the dog or lion kind, and he will observe how many of 
the works of nature are published, if I may use the expres- 
sion, in a variety of editions. If we look into the reptile 
world, or into those diaerent kind of animals that rill tlie 
element of water, we meet with the same repetitions among" 
several species, that differ very little from one another, but 
in size and bulk. I cu rind the same creature that is drawn 
at large, copied out in several proportions, and ending in 
miniature. It would be tedious to produce instances of 
this regular conduct in Providence, as it would be super- 
fluous to those who are versed in the natural history of ani- 
mals. The magnificent harmon} r of the universe is such, 
that we may observe innumerable divisions running upon 
the' same ground. I might also extend this speculation to 
the dead parts of nature, in which we may find matter dis- 
posed into many similar systems, as well "in our survey of 
stars and planets, as of stones, vegetables, and other sub- 
lunary parts of the creation. In a word, Providence has 
shown the richness of its goodness and wisdom, not only in 
the production of many original species, but in the multi- 
plicity of descants which it has made on every original 
species in particular. 

But to pursue this thought still farther. — Every living 
creature, considered in itself, has many very complicated 
parts, that are exact copies of some other parts which it 
possesses, which are complicated in the same manner. One 
eye w T ould have been sufficient for the subsistence and pre- 
servation of an animal ; but in order to better his condition, 
we see another placed, with a mathematical exactness, in 
. the same most advantageous situation, and in every parti- 
cular, of the same size and texture. It is impossible for 
chance to be thus delicate and uniform in her operations. 
Should a million of dice turn up twice together in the same 
number, the wonder would be nothing in comparison with 
this. But when we see this similitude and resemblance in 
the arm, the hand, the fingers ; when we see one half of the 
body entirely correspond with the other, in all those minute 
strokes, without which a man might have very well subsist- 
ed ; nay ? whea we often see a single part repeated a hun 



%U 1ESS0NS 1ST [Part L 

dred times in the same body, notwithstanding it consists or 
the most intricate weaving of numberless fibres, and these 
parts differing still in magnitude , as the convenience of 
their particular situation require? ; sure a man must have a 
strange cast of Understanding, who does not discover the 
linger of God, in so wonderful a work. These duplicates, 
in those parts of the body, without which a man might have 
very w ell subsisted, though not so well as with them, are a 
plain demonstration of an all-wise Contriver; as those more 
numerous copyings, which are found among the vessels of 
the same body, are evident demonstrations that they could 
not be the work of chance. This argument receives addi- 
tional strength, if we apply it to every animal and insect 
within our knowledge, as well as those numberless living* 
creatures, that are objects too minute for a human eye :. 
And if we consider how the several species in this whole 
world of life resemble one another, in very many particu- 
lars, so far as is convenient for their respective states of ex- 
istence, it is much more probable that a hundred million of 
dice should be casually thrown a hundred million of times 
in the same number, than that the body of any single ani- 
mal should be produced by the fortuitous concourse of mat- 
ter. And that the like chance should arise in innumerable 
instances, requires a degree of credulity that is not unde? 
the direction of common sense. 

III. — On Natural and Fantastical Pleasures. 

IT is of great use to consider the Pleasures which tot$ 
stitute human happiness, as they are distinguished into Na- 
tural and Fantastical. Natural Pleasures I call these, which 
not depending on the fashion and caprice of any particular 
age or nation, are suited to human nature in general, and 
were intended, by Providence, as rewards for using our 
faculties agreeably to the ends for which they are given us. 
Fantastical Pleasures are those which, having no natural 
fitness to delight our minds, presuppose some particular 
whim or taste, accidently prevailing in a set of people, to 
which it is owing that they please. 

Now I take it, that the tranquillity and cheerfulness, with 
which I have passed my life, are the effects of having, ever 
•since I came to years of discretion, continued my inclina- 
tions to the former sort of pleasures. But as my experience 
can be a rule only to my own action-, it may pro' ably he a 
•stronger motive to induce others to the same scheme of life, 



Sect, V] READING. -36* 

if they would consider that we .are prompted to natural plea«< 
sures, by an instinct impressed on our minds by the Author 
of our nature, who best understands our frames, and conse- 
quently best knows what those pleasures are, which will give 
us the least uneasiness in the pursuit, and the greatest sa- 
tisfaction in the enjoyment of them. Hence it follows, that 
the object of our natural desires are cheap, and easy to be 
obtained ; it being- a maxim that holds throughout the 
whole system of created beings, " that nothing is made in 
vain," much less the instincts and appetites of animals, 
which the benevolence, as well as the wisdom of the Deity 
is concerned to provide for. Nor is the fruition of those ob- 
jects less pleasing, than the acquisition is easy; and the 
pleasure is heightened oy the sense of having answered some 
natural end, and the consciousness of acting in concert with 
the Supreme Governor of the universe. 

Under natural pleasures I comprehend those which are 
universally suited, as well to the rational as the sensual part 
of our nature. And of the pleasures which affect our senses, 
those only are to be esteemed natural, that are contained 
within the rules of reason^ wiiich is allow- ed to be as neces- 
sary an ingredient of human nature, as sense. And indeed, 
excesses of any kind are hardly to be esteemed pleasures, 
much less natural pleasures. 

It is evident that a desire terminated in money is fantas- 
tical ; so is the desire of outward distinctions, which bring 
no delight of sense, nor recommend us as useful to man- 
kind ; and the desire of things, merely because they are 
new or foreign. Men who are indisposed to a di\e exertion 
of their higher parts, are driven to such pursuits as these, 
from the restlessness of the mind, and the sensitive appe 
tites being easily satisfied. It is, in some sort, owing to the 
bounty of Providence, that, disdaining a cheap and vulgar 
happiness, they frame to themselves imaginary goods, in 
wiiich there is nothing can raise desire, but the difficulty of 
obtaining them. Thus men become the contrivers of their 
own misery, as a punishment to themselves, for departing 
from the measures of nature. Having, by an habitual re- 
flection on these truths, made them familiar, the effect is-, 
that I, among a number of persons who have debauched 
their natural taste, see things in a peculiar light, which I 
have arrived at, not by any uncommon force of genius, of 
acquired knowledge, but only by unlearning the false ri^ 
pons instilled by custom and educaiipn.- 



166 LESSONS IN [Fart L 

The various objects tliat compose the world, were, by na- 
ture, formed to delight our senses; and as it is this alone 
that lnafes tnem desirable to an uncprrupted taste, a man 
may he said naturally to possess them, when he possesses 
those enjoyments which they are fitted by nature to Yield. 
Hence it is usual with me to consider myself a* having a 
natural property in every object that administers pleasure 
to me. When I am in the country, all the fine seals near 
the piece oi' my residence, and to which J have access, I re- 
gard as mine. The same I think of the groves and iields 
where I walk, and muse on the lolly of the civil landlord in 
London, who has the fantastical pleasure of draining dry 
rent into his coffers, hut is a stranger to the fresh air aad 
rural enjoyments. By these principles, I am possessed of 
half a dozen of the finest seats in England, winch, in the eye 
of the law, belong io certain of my acquaintance, who, being 
men of business, choose to live near the court. 

In acme great families, where I choose to pass my time, 
a stranger would be apt to rank me with the other domes- 
tics; hut, in my own thoughts and natural judgment, I am 
master of the house, and he who goes by that name is my 
steward, who eases me of the care of providing for myself 
the conveniencies and pleasures of life. 

When I walk the streets, I use the- foregoing natural 
maxim, viz. That he is the true possessor of a thing, who 
enjoys it, and not he that owns it without the enjoyment 
of it, to convince myself that I have a property in the gay 
part of all the gilt chariots that I mcei^ which I regard as 
amusements designed to delight my eyes, and the imagina- 
tion of those kind people who sit in them, gaily attired, 
only to please me, I have a real, they only an imaginary 
pleasure, from their exterior embellishments. Upon the 
same principle, I have discovered that I am the natural 
proprietor of all the diamond necklaces, the crosses, stars, 
brocades, and embroidered clothes, which I see at a play or 
birthnight, as giving more natural delight to the spectator, 
than to those that wear them. And I look on the beaus 
and ladies as so many paroquets in an aviary, or tulips in a 
garden, designed purely for my diversion. A gallery oi 
pictures, a cabinet or library, that I have free access to, 1 
think my own. In a word, ail that i desire, is the use of 
things, let who will have the keeping of them ; by which 
maxim I am grown one of the richest men in Great Britain ; 



Sect. V.] READING. fe« 

vvith this d iiter encs— t hat I am not a prey to my own cares, 
or the envy of others. 

The same principles I find of great use in my private 
economy. As I cannot go to the price of history painting, 
I have purchased, at easy rates, several beautifully designed 
pieces of landscape and perspective, which are much more 
pleasing to a natural taste, thata unknown faces of .Dutch 
gambols, though done by the best masters ; my couches, 
beds, and window curtains, are of Irish stuff, which those of 
that nation work very fine, and with a delightful mixture 
of colours. There is not a piece of china in my house; 
but I have glasses of all sorts, and some tinged with the 
finest colours ; which are not the less pleasing because 
they are domestic, and cheaper than foreign toys. Every 
thing is neat, entire, and clean, and fitted to the taste of 
one who would rather be happy, than be thought rich. 

Every day numberless innocent and natural gratifications 
occur to me, while I behold my fellow-creatures labouring 
in a toilsome and absurd pursuit of trifles ; one, that he 
may be called by a particular appellation ; another, that he 
may wear a particular ornament, which I regard as a piece 
of riband, that has an agreeable effect on my sight, but is 
so far from supplying the place of merit, where it is not, 
that it serves only to make the want of it more conspicuous. 
Fair weather is the joy of my soul ; about noon, I behold a 
blue sky with rapture, and receive great consolation from 
the rosy dashes of light, which adorn the clouds both morn- 
ing and evening. When I am lost among the green trees, 
I do not envy a great man, with a great crowd at his levee. 
And I often lay aside thoughts of going to an opera, that I 
may enjoy the silent pleasure of walking by moonlight, or 
viewing the stars sparkle in their azure ground; which I 
look upon as a part of my possessions, not without a secret 
indignation at the tastelessness of mortal men, who. in their 
race through life, overlook the real enjoyments of it. 

But the plea ure which naturally affects a human mind 
with the most lively and transporting touches, I take 10 be 
the sense that we act in the eye of infinite wisdom, power 
ana goodness, that will crown our virtuous endeavours here, 
with a happiness hereafter, large as our desires, and last- 
ing as our immortal souls. This is a perpetual spring of 
gladness in the mind. This lessens our calamities, and 
doubles our joys. Without this, the highest state of life is 
insipid ; and with it, the lowest is a paradise. 



m LESSONS IN' [Fart I. 

IV.~— Tfie Folly and Madness of Ambil'on illustrated. 

AMONG the variety of subjects with which you have 
entertained and instructed the public, I do not remember 
that you have any where touched upon the folly and mad* 
cess of ambition ; which, for the benefit of those who are 
dissatisfied with their present situations, I beg leave to iHu#' 
Irate, by giving the history of my own life. 

I am the son of a younger brother, of a good family, „ 
who, at his decease, left me a little fortune of a hundred 
pounds a year. I was put early to Eton school, where i 
learnt Latin and Greek ; from which I went to the univer- 
sity, where I learnt not totally to forget them, teams 

to my fortune while I was at college ; and having no incli- 
nation to follow any profession, I removed nryself to tow T n, 
and lived for some time as most young gentlemen do, by 
spending four times my income. But it was my happiness, 
before it was too late, to fall in love, and to marry a very 
amiable young creature, whose fortune was just sufficient 
to repair the breach made in my own. With this agreea- 
ble companion I retreated to the country, and endeavoured, 
as well as I was able, to square my wishes to my circum-* 
stances. In this endeavour I succeeded so wellj that, ex-. 
cept a few private hankerings after a little more than I 
possessed, and now and then a sigh, when a coach and six 
happened to drive by me in my walks, I was a very happy 
man. 

I can truly assure you, Mr. Fitz Adam, that though our 
family economy was not much to be boasted of, and in con- 
sequence of it, we were frequently driven to great straits 
and difficulties, I experienced more real satisfaction in this 
humble situation, than I have ever done since, in more en 
viable circumstances. We were sometimes a little in debt ; 
but when money came in, the pleasure of discharging what 
we owed, was more than equivalent for the pain it put us 
to ; and, though the narrowness of our circumstances sub 
jected us to many cares and anxieties, it served to keep 
the body in action, as well as the mind ; for, as our garden 
was somewhat large, and required more hands to keep it 
in order, than we could afford to hire, we laboured daily 
in it ourselves, and drew health from our necessities. 

I had a little boy, who was the delight of my heart, and 
who probably might have been spoilt, by nursing, if the 
attention of his parents had not been otherwise employed. 



Sect. V.] READING. Ibb 

His mother was naturally of a sickly constitution : but the 
affairs of her family, as they engrossed all her thoughts, 
<rave her no time for complaint. The ordinary troubles of 
life, which, to those who have nothing else to think of, are 
almost insupportable, were less terrible to us, than to per 
son 3 in easier circ :ss : for it is a certain truth, h 

r your readers may please to receive it, that where the 
mind is divided between many cares, the anxiety is lighter 
than where then one to contend with. And even 

in the happiest situation, in die middle of ease, health, and 
affluence, the mind is generally ingenious at tormenting 
itself; losing the immediate enjoyment of those invaluable 
blessings, by the painful suggestion that they are too great 
for continuance. 

These are the reflections that I have had since ; for I do 
not attempt to deny, that I sighed frequently for an addi- 
tion to my ibrtune. The death of a distant relation, which 
happened rive years after cur marriage, gave me this addi- 
tion, and made me for a time the happiest man living. My 
income was now increased to six hundred a year; and I 
hoped, with a little economy, to be able to make a figure 
wkh it. But the ill health of my wife, which in less easy 
circumstances had not touched me so nearly, was now con- 
ltly in my thoughts, and soured all my enjoyments. 
The co. too, of having such an estate to leave 

my boy, made me so anxious to preserve him, that, instead 
of suffering him to run at pleasure, where he pleased, and 
grow hardy by exercise, I almost destroyed him by confine- 
ment. We now did nothing in our garden, because we 
were in circumstances to have it kept by others ; but as air 
and exercise were necessary for our healths, we resolved to 
abridge ourselves in some unnecessary articles, and to set 
up an equipage. This, in time, brought with it a train of 
expenses, which we had neither prudence to foresee, nor 
courage to prevent. For as it enabled us to extend the cir- 
cuit of our visits, it greatly increased our acquaintance, and 
subjected us to the necessity of making continual entertain- 
ments at home, in return for all those which we were invited 
to abroad. The charges that attended this new manner of 
living, were much too great for the income we possessed ; 
insomuch that we found ourselves, in a very short time, 
more necessitous than ever. Pride would not suffer us to 
lay down our equipage; and to live in a manner unsuitable 

p 



170 LESSONS IN [Part 1 

to it, was what we could not bear to think of. To pay the 
debts we had contracted, I was soon forced to mortgage, 
and at last to sell, the best part of my estate ; and as it was 
utterly impossible to keep up the parade any longer, we 
thought it advisable to remove on a sudden, to sell our 
coach in town, and to look out for a new situation, at a 
greater distance from our acquaintance. 

But unfortunately for iny peace, I carried the habit of 
expense along with me, and was very near being reduced 
to absolute want, when, by the unexpected death of an un- 
cle and his two sons, who died within a few weeks of each 
other, I succeeded to an estate cf seven thousand pounds a 
.year. 

And now, Mr. Fitz Adam, both you and your readers 
will undoubtedly call me a very happy man; and so in- 
deed I was. I set about the regulation of my family, with 
the most pleasing satisfaction. The splendour of my equi- 
pages, the magnificence of my plate, the crowd of servants 
that attended me, the elegance of my house and furniture, 
the grandeur of my park and gardens, the luxury of my ta- 
ble, and the court that was every where paid me, gave me 
inexpressible delight, so long as they were novelties ; but 
no sooner were they become habitual to me, than I lost all 
manner of relish for them ; and I discovered, in a very little 
time, that, hj having nothing to wish for, I had nothing to 
enjoy. My appetite grew pallid by satiety, a perpetual 
crowd of visiters robbed me of all domestic enjoyment, my 
servants plagued me, and my steward cheated me. 

But the curse of greatness did not end here. Daily 
experience convinced me, That I was compelled to live 
more for others than myself. My uncle had been a great 
party man, and a zealous opposer of all ministerial mea- 
sures ; and as his estate was the largest of any gentleman's 
In the country, he supported an interest in it beyond any of 
his competitors. My father had been greatly obliged by 
the court party, which determined me in gratitude to declare 
myself on that side ; but the difficulties I had to encoun- 
ter, were too many and too great for me ; insomuch that I 
have been baffled and defeated in almost every thing I have 
undertaken. To desert the cause I have embarked in, 
would disgrace me, and to go greater lengths in it, would 
undo me. I am engaged in a perpetual state of warfare 
with the principal gentry of the country, and am cursed by 
my tenants and dependents, for compelling them, at every 



Sect. V.] READING. 171 

election, to vole (as they are pleased to tell me) contrary 
to their conscience. 

My wife and I had once pleased ourselves with the thought 
of being useful to the neighbourhood, by dealing out our 
charity to the poor and industrious; but the perpetual har- 
ry in which we live, renders us incapable of looking out 
for objects ourselves; and the agents we Intrust are either 
pocketing our bounty, or bestowing it on the undeserving. 
At night, when we retire to rest, we are venting our com- 
plaints on the miseries of the day, and praying heartily tor 
the return of that peace, which was the only companion 
of our humblest situation. 

This sir, is my history ; and if you give it a place in your 
paper, it may serve to inculcate this Important truth — 
that where pain, sickness, and absolute want, are out of the 
question, no external change of circumstances can make a 
man more lastingly happy than he was before. It is to the 
ignorance of this truth, that the universal dissatisfaction of 
mankind is principally to be ascribed. Care is the lot of 
life ; and he that aspires to greatness, in hopes to get rid 
of it, is like one who throws himself into a furnace to avoid 
the shivering of an ague. 

The only satisfaction I can enjoy in my present situation 
Is, that it has not pleased heaven, in its wrath, to make me 
a king. 

V. — Battle of 1 'liars alia , k and. Death of Pompeij. 
AS the armies approached, the two generals went from 
rank to rank encouraging their troops. Pompey represent- 
ed to his men, that the glorious occasion which they had 
Jong besought him to grant, was now before them; "And 
indeed," cried he, " what advantages could }^ou wish over 
an enem} r , that you are not now possessed of? Your num- 
bers, } r our vigour, a late victory, all ensure a speedy and an 
easy conquest over those harassed and broken troops, corn- 
posed of men worn out with age, and impressed with the ter- 
rors of a recent defeat : but there is still a stronger bulwark 
for our protection, than the superiority of our strength- — 
the justice of our cause. You are engaged in the defence 
of liberty and of your country. You are supported by its 
laws, and followed by its magistrates. You have the world 
spectators of your conduct, and wishing you success, — On 
. the contrary, he whom you oppose, is a robber and oppressor 
of his country, and almost already sunk with the conscious- 



172 LESSONS IN [Part! 

ness of his crimes, as well as the bad success of his arms. 
Show, then, on this occasion, all that candour and detes- 
tation of tyranny, that should animate Rpirians, and do 
justice to mankind." Caesar, on his side, went among his 
men with that steady serenity, for which he was so much 
admired in the midst of danger. He insisted on nothing so 
strongly, to his soldiers, as his frequent and unsuccessful 
endeavours for peace. He talked with terror on the blood 
he was going to shed, and. pleaded only the necessity that 
urged him to it. He deplored the many brave men. that 
were to fall on both sides, and the Wounds of his country, 
whoever should be victorious. His soldiers answered his 
speech with looks of ardour and impatience ; which observing, 
he gave the signal to begin. The word on Fcmpey's side, 
was Hercules the invincible ; that on Caesar's, Venus the victo- 
rious. There was only so much space between both armies, 
as to give room for fighting : wherefore, Pompey ordered his 
men to receive the first shock, without moving out of their 
places, expecting the enemy's ranks to be put into disorder 
by their motion. Caesar's soldiers were now rushing en 
with their usual impetuosity, when, perceiving the enemy 
motionless, they all stopt short, as if by general consent, 
and halted in the midst of their career. A terrible pause 
ensued, in which, both armies continued to gaze upon each 
other, with mutual terror. At length Caesar's men, having 
taken breath, ran furiously upon the enemy, first discharg- 
ing their javelins, and then drawing their swords. The 
same method was observed by Fompey's troops, who as vigo- 
rously opposed the attack. His cavalry, also, were ordered 
to charge at the very onset, which, with a multitude of ar- 
chers and slingers, soon obliged Caesar's men to give ground: 
whereupon Caesar immediately ordered the six cohorts, that 
were placed as a reinforcement, to advance, with orders to 
strike at the enemy's faces. This had its desired effect. The 
cavalry, that were but just now sure of victory, received an 
immediate check ; the unusual method of fighting pursued 
by the cohorts, their aiming entirely at the visages of the 
assailants, and the horrible disfiguring wounds they made, 
all contributed to intimidate them so much, that, instead of 
defending their persons, their only endeavour was to save 
their faces. A total rout ensued of their whole body, which 
fled m great disorder to the neighbouring mountains, while 
the archers and slingers, who were thus abandoned, were 
cat \o pieces. Caesar now. commanded the cohorts to pur- 



Sect. V] READING. 173- 

sue their success, and advancing, charged Pompey's troops 
upon the flank. This charge the enemy withstood for some 
time with great bravery, till he brought up his third line, 
which had not yet engaged. Pompey's infantry, being 
thus doubly attacked, in front by fresh troops, and in rear 
by the victorious cohorts, could no longer resist, but fled to 
their camp. The right wing, however, still valiantly main- 
tained their ground. But Caesar, being now convinced 
that the victory was certain, with his usual clemency, cried 
out, to pursue the strangers, and to spare the Romans ; 
upon which they all laid down their arms, and received 
quarter. The greatest slaughter was among the auxiliaries, 
who fled on all quarters, but principally went for safety to 
the camp. The battle had now lasted from the break of 
day till noon, although the weather was extremely hot ; 
the conquerors, however, did not remit their ardour, being- 
encouraged by the example of their general, who thought 
his victory not complete till he became master of the 
enemy's camp. Accordingly, marching on foot, at their 
head, he called upon them to follow, and strike the decisive 
blow. The cohorts which were left to defend the camp, 
for some time made a formidable resistance, particularly a 
great number of Thracians, and other barbarians, who 
were appointed for its defence ; but nothing could, resist 
the ardour of Caesar's victorious army ; they were at last 
driven from their trenches, and all fled to the mountains, 
not far off. Caesar seeing the field and camp strewed with 
his fallen countrymen, was strongly affected at so melan- 
choly a prospect, and could not help crying out to one 
that stood near him, "They would have it so." Upon 
entering the enemy's camp, every object presented fresh 
instances of the blind presumption and madness of his ad- 
versaries. On all sides were to be seen tents adorned with 
ivy, and branches of myrtles, couches covered with purple, 
and sideboards loaded with plate. Every thing gave proofs 
of the highest luxury, and seemed rather the preparatives 
for a banquet, the rejoicings for a victory, than the dispo- 
sitions for a battle. 

As for Pompey, who had formerly shown such instances 
of courage and conduct, when he saw his cavalry routed, 
on which he had placed his sole dependence, he absolutely 
lost his reason. Instead of thinking how to remedy this 
disorder, by rallying such troops as fled, or by opposing 
fresh troops to stop the progress of the conquerors, being 



I H LESSONS IN (Paut I. 

totally amazed by this unexpected blow, be returned to the 
camp, and in his tent, waited the issue of an event, which 
it was his duty to direct, not to follow. There he remained 
for some moments, without speaking ; till being told that 
the camp was attacked, " What," says he, " are we pur- 
sued to our very entrenchments 1" And immediately quit- 
ting his armour, for a habit more suitable to his circum- 
stances, he fled on horseback ; giving- way to all the ago- 
nizing reflections which his deplorable situation must natu- 
rally suggest. In this melancholy manner he passed along 
the vale of Tempe, and pursuing the course of the river 
Peneus, at last arrived at a fisherman's hut, in which he 
passed the night. From thence he went on board a little 
bark, and keeping along the seashore, he descried a ship 
of some burden, which seemed preparing to sail, in which 
he embarked, the master of the vessel still paying him 
the homage that was due to his former station. From the 
mouth of the river Peneus he sailed to Amphipolis ; where, 
rinding his affairs desperate, he steered to Lesbos, to take 
in his wife Cornelia, whom he had left there, at a distance 
from the dangers and hurry of war. She, who had long 
flattered herself with the hopes of victory, felt the reverse, 
of her fortune, in an agony of distress. She was desired 
by the messenger- (whose tears, more than words, proclaim- 
ed the greatness of her misfortunes) to hasten, if she expect- 
ed to see Pompey, with but one ship, and even that not hie 
own. Her grief, which before was violent, became now in- 
supportable ; she fainted away, and lay a considerable time 
without any signs of life. At length, recovering herself, 
and reflecting that it was now no time for vain lamentations, 
she ran quite through the city to the seaside. Pompey 
embraced her without speaking a word, and for some time t 
supported her in his arms in silent despair. 

Having taken in Cornelia, he now continued his course, 
steering to the southeast, and stopping no longer than was 
necessary to take in provisions, at the ports that occurred 
in his passage. He was at last prevailed upon to apply to 
Ptolemy, king of Egypt, to whose father Pompey had been 
a considerable benefactor. Ptolemy, who was as yet a mi- 
nor, had not the government in his own hands, but he and 
his kingdom were under the direction of Phontinus, a eu- 
nuch, and Theodotus, a master of the art of speaking. 
These advised, that Pompey should be invited on shore> 
,md there slain ; and accordingly, Achilles, the command- 



Sect. V.] READING. 175 

er of the forces, and Septimius, by birth a Roman, and who 
had formerly been a centurion in Pompey's army, we ap- 
pointed to carry their opinion into execution; B 
ed by three or four more, they went Ip- j rk, and 

rowed off from land towards Pompey's ship, that lay about a 
mile from the shore. Pompey, after taking leave of Corne- 
lia, who wept at his departure, and having repeated two 
verses of Sophocles, signifying, that he who trusts his free- 
dom to a tyrant, from that moment becomes a slave ; gave 
his hand to Achilles, and stept into the bark, with only two 
attendants of his own. They had dok rowed from the ship a 
good way, and, as during that time they all kept a profound 
silence. Pompey, willing to begin the discourse, accosted 
Septimius, whose face he recollected — ;; Me thinks, friend,* 5 
cried he, " you and I were once fellow-soldiers together," 
Septimius gave only a nod with his head, without uttering 
a word, or instancing the least civility. Pompey, therefore, 
took out a paper, on which he had minuted a speech he in- 
tended to make to the king, and began reading it. In this 
manner they approached the shore ; and Cornelia, whose 
concern had never suffered her to lose sight of her husband, 
began to conceive hope, when she perceived the people on 
the strand, crowding down along the coast, as if willing to 
receive him; but her hopes were soon destroyed ; for that 
instant, as Pompey rose, supporting himself upon his freed- 
man^s arm, Septimius stabbed him in the back, and was in- 
stantly seconded by Achilles. Pompey, perceiving his death 
inevitable, only disposed himself to meet it with decency — ■ 
and covering his face with his robe, without speaking a word, 
with a sigh, resigned himself to his fate. At this horrid 
sight, Cornelia shrieked so loud as to be heard to the shore ; 
but the danger she herself was in, did not allow the mariners 
time to look on ; they immediately set sail, and the to ind 
proving favourable, fortunately they escaped the pursuit of 
the Egyptian gaiiies. In the mean time, Pompey V mur- 
derers, having cut off his head, caused it to be embalmed. 
the better to preserve its features, designing it for a present 
to Caesar. The body was thrown naked on the strand, and 
exposed to the view of all those whose curiosity led them 
that way. However, his faithful freedman, Philip, still 
kept near it; and when the crowd was dispersed, he wash- 
ed it in the sea ; and looking round for materials to burn it 
with, he perceived the wreck of a fishing-boat; of which he 
composed a pile. While he was thus piously employed, he 



116 LESSONS IN [Part t 

was accosted by an old Roman soldier, who had served un* 
der Pompey in his youth. "Who art thou." said he, " that 
art making these humble preparations for Pompey's fune- 
ral ?" Philip having answered that he was one of his freed- 
men, " Alas!" replied the soldier, "permit me to share in 
this honour also ; among all the miseries of my exile, it will 
be my last sad comfort, that I have been able to assist at the 
funeral of my old commander, and touch the body of the 
bravest general that ever Rome produced." After this, 
they both joined in giving the corpse the last rites ; and 
collecting his ashes, buried them under a little rising earth, 
scraped together with their hands; over which was after- 
wards placed the following inscription : — " He whose merits 
deserve a temple, can scarce find a tomb." 

VI. — Character of King Alfred. 
THE merit of this prince, both in private and public life, 
may, with advantage, be set in opposition to that of any 
monarch or citizen, which the annals of any nation or any 
age can present to us. He seems, indeed, to be the com- 
plete model of that perfect character, which under the de- 
nomination of a sage or wise man, the philosophers have 
been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imagi- 
nation, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to practice ; 
so happily were ail his virtues tempered together, so justly 
were they blended, and so powerfully did each prevent the 
other from exceeding its proper bounds ! He knew how to 
conciliate the boldest enterprise with the coldest modera- 
tion ; the most obstinate perseverance, with the easiest flex- 
ibility; the most severe justice, with the greatest lenity; the 
most vigorous command, with the greatest affability of de- 
portment; the highest capacity and inclination for science, 
with the most shining talents for action. His civil and mili- 
tary virtues are almost equally the objects of our admira- 
tion ; excepting, only, that the former being more rare 
among princes, as well as more useful, seem chiefly to chal- 
lenge our applause. Nature, also, as if desirous that so 
bright a production of her skill should be set in the fairest 
light, had bestowed on him all bodily accomplishments ; vi- 
gour of limbs, dignity of shape and air, and a pleasant, en- 
gaging, and open countenance. Fortune alone, by throw- 
ing him into that barbarous age, deprived him of historians 
worthy to transmit his fame to posterity; and we wish to see 
him delineated in more lively colours, and with more parti- 



Sect. V.] READING. 177 

cular strokes,, that we may at least perceive some of those 
small specks and blemishes, from which, as a man, it is im- 
possible he could be entirely exempted. 

VII. — Azxkzvardness in Company. 

WHEN an awkward fellow first comes into a rGom, he 
attempts to bow, and his sword, if he wears one, ^gets be- 
tween his legs, and nearly throws him down. Confused 
and ashamed, he stumbles to the upper end of the room, 
and seats himself in the very place where he should not. 
He there begins playing with his hat, which he presently 
drops ; and recovering his hat, he lets fall his cane ; and in 
picking up his cane, down goes his hat again. Thus, it is a 
considerable time before he is adjusted. 

When his tea or coffee is handed to him, he spreads his 
handkerchief upon his knees, scalds his mouth, drops either 
the cup or saucer, and spills the tea or coffee in his lap. At 
dinner, he seats himself upon the edge of the cbair, at so 
great a distance from the, table, that he frequently drops 
the meat between his plate and his mouth ; he holds his 
knife, fork, and spoon, differently from other people ; eats 
with his knife, to the manifest danger of his mouth ; and 
picks his teeth with his fork. 

If he is to carve^ he cannot hit the joint ; but in labour- 
ing to cut through the bone, splashes the sauce over every 
body^s clothes. He generally daubs himself all over ; his 
elbows are in the next person's plate ; and he is up to the 
knuckles in soup and grease. If he drinks, it is with his 
mouth full, interrupting the whole company with — " To 
your good health, sir," and " My service to you :" Perhaps 
coughs in his glass, and besprinkles the whole table. 

He addresses the company by improper titles, as, Sir, for 
My Lord ; mistakes one name for another: and tells yoo 
of Mr. Whatd'yecallhim, or You know who ; Mrs. Thing 
urn, What's her name, or How dPye call her. lie begins a 
story ; but not being able to finish it, breaks off in the mid- 
dle, with — " I've forgot the rest," 

VIII.- — Virtue Man^s highest Interest, 

I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded 
every way by an immense unknown expansion.— Where am 
I ? What sort of a place do I inhabit ? Is it exactly accom- 
modated, in every instance, to my convenience ? Is there no 
excess of cold none of heat, to offend me ? Am I never aa- 



578 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

noyed by animate, either of my own kind or a different 1 Is 
every thing subservient to me, as though I had ordered ail 
myself 1 No, nothing like i\ — the farthest from it possible. 
The world appears not, then, originally made for the private 
convenience of me alone '? It does not. But is it not possi- 
ble so to accommodate it, by my own particular industry 1 
If to accommodate man and beast, heaven and earth, if this 
be beyond me, it is not possible. What consequence, then, 
follows ? Or can there be any other than this ? If I seek an 
interest of my own, detached from that of others, I seek an 
interest which is chimerical, and can never have existence. 

How then must I determine ? Have I no interest at all 1 
If T have not, I am a fool for staying here : 'Tis a smoky 
house, and the sooner out of it the better. But why no in- 
terest ] Can I be contented with none but one separated 
and detached ? Is a social interest, joined with others, such 
an absurdity as not to be admitted I The bee, the beaver, 
and the tribes of herding animals, are enough to convince 
me that the thing is, somewirere, at least, possible. How 
then, ami assured that it is not equally true of man? Ad- 
mit it, and what follows 1 If so, then honour and justice are 
my interest ; then the whole train of moral virtues are my 
interest: without some portion of which, not even thieves 
can maintain society. 

But farther still — I stop not here— I pursue this social 
interest as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass 
from my own stock, my own neighbourhood, my own nation, 
to the whole race of mankind, as dispersed throughout the 
earth. Am I not related to them all, by the mutual aids of 
commerce, by the general intercourse of arts and letters, by 
that common nature of which we all participate ? 

Again — -1 must have food and clothing. Without a pro- 
per genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am 1 not related, in 
this view, to the very earth itself? To the distant san, from 
whose beams I derive vigour? To that stupendous course and 
order of the infinite host of heaven, by which the times and 
seasons ever uniformly pass on ? Were this order once con- 
founded, I could not probably survive a moment ; so abso- 
lutely do I depend on this common, general welfare. What 
then have 1 to do but to enlarge virtue into piety ! Not only 
honour and justice, and what 1 owe to man, are my interest: 
But gratitude also, acquiescence, resignation, adoration, 
and all 1 owe to this great polity, and its great Governor, 
our common Parent. 



Sect V] HEADING, 179 

IX.— On the Pleasures arising from Object's of Sight. 

Til I )f the imagination which arise from 

the actual view and survey of outward objects, all proceed 
from the sight of t : uticoniftitin, or beautiful. 

By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single 
object, bat the largeness of a whole view, considered as one 
entire piece, Such are the prospects of an open champaign 
country, a vast uncultivated desert, -of huge heaps of moun- 
tains, high rocks and precipices, or a wide expanse of wa- 
ters ; where we are not struck with the novelty or beauty 
of the sight, but with that rude kind of magnificence, which 
appears in many of these stupendous works of nature. Our 
imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp at 
any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are flung 
into a pleasing astonishment at such unbounded views, and 
feel a delightful stillness and amazement in the soul, at the 
apprehensions of them. The mind of man naturally hates 
every thing that looks like restraint upon it, and is apt to 
fancy itself under a sort of confinement, when the sight is 
pent up in a narrow compass, and shortened, on every side, 
by the neighbourhood of walls and mountains. On the con- 
trary, a spacious horizon is an image of liberty, where the 
eye has room to range abroad, to expatiate at large on t he- 
immensity of its views, and to lose itself amidst the variety 
of objects that oner themselves to its observation. Such 
wide and undetermined prospects are as pleasing to the fancy, 
as the speculations of eternity or infinitude are to the un- 
derstanding, But II there be a beauty or uncommonness 
joined with this grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven 
adorned with stars and meteors, or a spacious landscape cut 
out into rivers, woods, rocks, and meadows, the pleasure still 
grows upon us, as it rises from more than a single principle. 

Every thing that is nezj or uncommon* raises a pleasure in 
the imagination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable 
surprise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which 
it was not before possessed. Wo are, indeed, s^ often ccn- 
versant with one set of objects, and tired out with so many 
repeated shows of the same things, that whatever is new or 
uncommon contributes a little to vary human lite , and to 
divert our minds, for a while, with the strangeness of its ap- 
pearance ; it serves us for a kind of refreshment, and takes 
or! from that satiety we are apt to complain oh in our usual 
and ordinary entertainments. It is this that bestows charms 



180 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

on a monster, and makes even the imperfections of nature 
please us. It is this that recommends variety, where the 
mind is every instant called off to something new, and the 
attention not suffered to dwell too long, and waste itself on 
any particular object. It is this, likewise, that improves 
what is great or beautiful, and makes it afford the mind a 
double entertainment. Groves, fields, and meadows, are, at 
any season of the year, pleasant to look upon ; but never so 
much as in the opening of the spring, when they are all new 
and fresh, with their first gloss upon them, and not yet too 
much accustomed and familiar to the eye. For this reason, 
there is nothing that more enlivens a prospect, than rivers, 
jetteaus, cv falls of water, where the scene is perpetually 
shifting, and entertaining t|ie sight every moment, witli 
something that is new. We are quickly tired with looking 
upon hills and vallies, where every thing continues fixed 
and settled in the same place and posture, but find our 
thoughts a little agitated and relieved, at the sieht of such 
objects as are ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath 
the eye of the beholder. 

But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to 
the soul, than beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret 
satisfaction and complacency through the imagination, and 
gives a finishing to any thing that is great or uncommon. 
The very first discovery of it strikes the mind with an in- 
ward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight through all 
its faculties. There is not, perhaps, any real beauty or de- 
formity more in one piece of matter than another ; because 
we might have been so made, that whatsoever now appears 
loathsome to us, might have shown itself agreeable ; but w t c 
find by experience, that there are several modifications of 
matter, which the mind, without any previous consideration, 
pronounces at the first sight, beautiful or deformed, Thus 
we see that every different species of sensible creatures has 
its different notions of beauty, and that each of them is most 
affected with the beauties of its own kind. This is no where 
more remarkable than in birds of the same shape and pro- 
portion, where we often see the male determined in his 
courtship by the single grain or tincture of a feather, and 
never discovering any charms but in the colour of its species. 

There is a second kind of beauty, that we find in the se- 
veral products of art and nature, which does not work in the 
imagination with that warmth and violence, as the beauty 
~ rhat appears in our own proper species, but is apt, howevar 



Sect. Y/f READING. I«j 

to raise in us a secret delight, and a kind of fondness for the 
places, or objects, in which we discover it. This consists 
either in the gaiety or variety of colours, in the symmetry 
and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and disposition 
of bodies, or in a just mixture and concurrence of all toge- 
ther. Among these several kinds of beauty, the eye takes 
most delight in colours. We no where meet with a more 
glorious or pleasing show in nature, than what appears in 
the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, which is 
wholly made up of those different strains of light, that show 
themselves in clouds of a different situation, For this rea- 
son we find the poets, who are always addressing themselves 
to the imagination, borrowing more of their epithets from 
colours, than from any other topic. 

As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange, 
or beautiful, and is still more pleased, the more it finds of 
these perfections in the same object ; so it is capable of re- 
ceiving a new satisfaction, by the assistance of another sense. 
Thus any continued sound, as the music of birds, or a fall 
of water, awakens, every moment, the mind of the beholder, 
and makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the 
place that lie before him. Thus, if there arise a fragrancy 
of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasures of the 
imagination, and make even the colours and verdure of the 
landscape appear more agreeable ; for the ideas of both 
senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together, 
than when they enter the mind separately ; as the different 
colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one 
another, and receive an additional beaut}' from the advan- 
tage of their situation. 

X. — Liberty and Slavery, 
DISGUISE thyself as thou wilt, still, slavery! still thtfu 
art a bitter draught ! and though thousands, in all ages, 
have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on 
that account. It is thou, liberty ! thrice sweet and gra- 
cious goddess, whom all, in public or in private, worship ; 
whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till nature 
herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy 
mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron. With 
thee to smile upon him as he oats his crust, the swain is 
happier than his motion, ^:om whose court thou art ex- 
iled. Gracious heaven ! Grant me but health, thou great 
J>estower of it I And give me but this fair eoddess as mt 



im LESSONS IN [Part I. 

companion ; and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good 
unto thy Divine Providence, upon those heads which are 
aching for them. 

Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close to my table ; and, 
leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself 
the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for 
it, find so I gave full scope to my imagination. 

I w T as going to begin with the millions of my feilow-crea- 
tures,J)om to no inheritance but slavery ; but hading, how- 
ever affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near 
me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but dis- 
tract me, J^teo1f"a single captive ; and having first shut 
him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight 
of his grated door, to take his picture. 

t beheld his body half wasted away, with long expecta- 
tion and confinement ; and felt what kind of sickness of the 
heart it is, which arises from hope deferred. Upon look- 
ing nearer, I saw him pale and feverish. In thirty years the 
western breeze had not once fanned his blood — he had 
seen no sun, no moon, in ail that time — nor had the voice 
of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. His 
children — but here my heart began to bleed — and I was 
forced to go on with another part of the portrait. 

He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw, in 
the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately 
his chair and bed." A little calendar of small sticks was 
laid at tire head ; notched all over with the dismal days and 
nigh is he had passed there. He had one of these little 
sticks in his hand ; and^ with a rusty nail, he was etching 
another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened 
the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards 
the door — then cast it down — shook his head — and went on 
with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his 
1c^, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the 
bundle. He gave a deep sigh — I saw the iron enter into 
his soul I burst into tears. I could not sustain the pic- 
ture of confinement which my fancy had drawn. 

XI. — The Capt of Criticism. 

-And how did Garrick speak the soliloquy last night ? 

I — -Oh, against all rule, my Lord ; most ungrammatically I 
Betwixt the substantive and the adjective (which should 
agree together, in number, case, and gender) he made a 
broach thus— stopping as if the point wanted settling. And 



Sect. V.] READING. 183 

after the nominative case, (which your Lordship knows 
should govern the verb) he suspended his voice, in the epi- 
logue, a dozen times, three seconds and threes fifths; by a; stop 
watch, my Lord, each time. Admirable grammarian ! But, 
in suspending his voice, was the sense suspended likewise ? 
Did no expression of attitude or, countenance iiii up the 
chasm? Was the eye silent? Did you narrowly look? I 
looked only at the stopwatch, my Lord. Excellent observer! 

And what of this new book, the whole world makes such 
a rout about? Oh, 'tis out of all plumb, my Lord — quite an 
irregular thing ! Not one of the angles at the ibur corners 
was a right angle. 1 had my rule and compasses, my Lord, 
in my pocket. Excellent critic ! 

And for the epic poem, your Lordship bade me look at, 
—upon taking the length, breadth, height, and depth, of 
it, and trying them at home, upon an exact scale of Bcs- 
sau's, 'tis out, my Lord, in e\ery one of its dimensions. 
Admirable connoisseur ! 

And did you step in to take a look at the grand picture, 
in your way back? 'Tis a melancholy daub, my Lord : not 
one principle of the pyramid in any one group ! And what 
a price ! For there is nothing of the colouring of Titian— 
the expression of Rubens — the grace of Raphael — the pu- 
rity of Dorninichino— the ccrregioscity of Corregic— the 
learning of Poussin — the airs of Guldo — the taste of Car- 
rachis — or the grand contour of Angelo. 

Grant me patience 1 Of all the cants which are canted, 
in this canting world — though the cant of hypocrisy may be 
the worst — the cant of criticism is the most tormenting I — * 
I would go fifty miles on foot, to kiss the hand of that man, 
whose generous heart will give up the reins of his imagi- 
nation into his author's hands, be pleased, he knows not 
why, and cares not wherefore. 

XII. — Parallel between Pope and Dryden. 

IN acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed 
to Dryden, whose education was more scholastic, and who, 
before he became an author, had been allowed more time 
for study, with better means of information. His mind has 
a larger range, and he collects his images and illustrations 
from a more extensive circumference of science. Dryden 
knew more of man, in his general nature ; and Pope, in 
his local manners. The notions of Dryden were formed 
by comprehensive speculation ; those of Pope 5 by minute 



134 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

attention. There is more dignity in the knowledge of 
Dry den, and more certainty in that of Pop,©. 

Poetry was not the sole praise of either; for both ex- 
celled likewise in prose : But Pope did not borrow his prose 
from his predecessor. The style of Dry den is capricious 
and varied; that of Pope is cautious and uniform: Dryden 
obeys the motions of his own mind; Pope constrains hte 
mind to his own rules of composition. — Dry&eh is some- 
times vehement and rapid ; Pope is always smooth, uni- 
form, and gentle. Dryden's page is a natural field, rising 
into inequalities, and r diversified by the varied exuberance 
of abundant vegetation ; Pope's is a velvet lawn, shavea 
hy the scythe, and levelled by the roller. 

Of genius — that power that constitutes a poet ; that 
quality, without which, judgment is cold, and knowledge 
is inert ; that energy which collects, combines, amplifies, 
and animates — the superiority must, with some hesitation, 
Be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be inferred, that of tMs 
poetical vigour, Pope had only a little, because Dryden had 
more ; for every other writer, since Milton, must give place 
to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must be said, that if he has 
brighter paragraphs, he has not better poems. Dryden's 
performances were always hasty ; either excited by some 
external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity ; he 
composed without consideration, and published without cor- 
rection. What his mind could supply at call, or gather in 
one excursion, was ail that he sought, and all that he gave. 
The dilatory caution of Pope enabled him to condense his 
sentiments, to multiply his images, and to accumulate all 
that study might produce, or change might supply. If the 
flights of Drj^den, therefore, are higher, Pope continues 
longer on the wing. If of Dryden's fire the blaze is 
brighter; of Pope's the heat is more regular and constant. 
Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope never falls 
below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, and 
Pope with perpetual delight. 

XH!— Story of Le Fever. 
IT was some time in the summer of that year in which 
Oendermond was taken by the allies, when my uncle Toby 
was one evening getting his supper, with Trim sitting be- 
hind him, at a small sideboard— I say sitting— for in consider- 
ation of Vao corporal's lame knee (which sometimes gave 



Sect. V.] READING. 183 

him exquisite pain)—- when my uncle Toby dined or supped 
alone, he would never suffer the corporal to stand : And the 
poor fellow's veneration for his master was such, that, with 
a proper artillery, my uncle Toby could have taken Den- 
clermond itself, with less trouble than he was able to gain 
this point over him : for many a time when my uncle Toby 
supposed the corporal's leg was at rest, he would look back, 
and detect him standing behind him, with the most dutiful 
respect ; this bred more little squabbles betwixt them, than 
all other causes, for five and twenty years together. 

He was one evening sitting thus at his supper, when the 
landlord of a little inn in the village came into the parlour, 
with an empty phial in his hand, to beg a glass or two of 
sack : 'Tis for a poor gentleman — I think of the army, said 
the landlord, who has been taken ill at my house four days 
ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a desire to 
taste any thing till just now, that lie had a fancy for a glass 
of sack, and a thin toast. — U I think," says he, taking his 
hand from his forehead — u it would comfort nie."— — 

— If I could neither beg, borrow, ncr buy, such a thing — 
added the landlord — I would almost steal it for the poor 
gentleman, he is so ill. — I hope he will still mend, con- 
tinued he — we are all of us concerned for him. 

Thou art a good natured soul, I will answer for thee, cried 
my uncle Tohy ; and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's 

health in a glass of sack thyself and take a couple of 

bottles, with my service, and tell him he is heartily welcome 
to them, and to a dozen more, if they will do him good. 

Though I am persuaded, said my uncle Toby, as the land- 
lord shut the door, he is a very compassionate fellow, Trim 
—yet 1 cannot help entertaining a high opinion of his guest 
too; there must be something more than common in him, 
that, in so short a time, should win so much upon the affec- 
tions of his host — and of his whole family, added the corpo- 
ral, for they are all concerned for him. — Step after him, said 
my uncle Toby — do Trim, and ask if he knows his name. 

I have quite forgot it, truly, said the landlord, coming 
back into the parlour with the corporal — but I can ask his 
son again. — Has he a son with him, then ? said my uncle 
Toby. A boy, replied the landlord, of about eleven or 
twelve years of age ; — but the poor creature has tasted al- 
most as little as his father ; he does nothing but mourn and 
lament for him night and day. He has not stirred from the 
bed side these two days. 
Q2 



W* * LESSORS IX [F ART f. 

^ My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thrust 
Ms plate from before him, as the landlord gave him the ao 
count j and Trim, without being ordered, took them away, 
without saying one word, and in a few minutes after brought 
him his pipe and tobacco. 

Trim I said my uncle Toby, I have a project in my head, 
as it is a bad night, of wrapping myself up warm in my 
roquelaure, and paying a visit to this poor gentleman.— ' 
5four honour's roquelaure, replied the corporal, has not 
once been had on since the night before your honour receiv- 
ed your wound, when we mounted guard in the trenches 
before the gate of St. Nicholas; — and besides, it is so cold 
and rainy a night, that, what with the roquelaure, and what 
with the weather, it will be enough to give your honour 
your death, I fear so, replied my uncle Toby ; but I am 
not at rest in my mind, Trim, since the account the land- 
lord has given me — I wish I had not known so much of this 
aifair — added my uncle Toby — or that I had known more 
of it.— How shall we manage it ? Leave it, an't please your 
honour, to me, quoth the corporal ; — I'll take my hat and 
stick, and go to the house, and reconnoitre, and act accor- 
dingly; and I will bring your honour a full account in an 
hour. Thou shall go, Trim, said my uncle Toby, and 
here's a shilling for thee to drink with his servant. I shall 
get it all out of him, said the corporal, shutting the door. 

It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out 
o[ his third pipe, that corporal Trim returned from the 
inn, and gave him the following account : — 

I despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to 
bring back your honour any kind of intelligence concerning 
the poor sick lieutenant — Is he of the army, then ? said my 
uncle Toby. He is, said the corporal — And in what regi- 
ment ? said my uncle Toby — I'll tell your honour, replied 
the corporal, every thing straight forward, as I learnt it- — 
Then, Trim, I'll fill another pipe, said my uncle Toby, and 
not interrupt thee ; — so sit down at thy ease, Trim, in the 
window seat, and begin thy story again. The corporal made 
his old bow ; which generally spoke as plain as a bow could 
speak it, " Your honour is good;" and having done that, 
he sat down, as he was ordered — and began the story to my 
uncle Toby over again, in pretty near the same words, 

I despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to 
bring back any intelligence to your honour, about the lieu- 
tenant and litis son ; for when I asked where his servant was,-. 



Sect. V.j REAJSI1SO. 18S 

from whom I made myself sure of knowing every thing that 
was proper to be asked — That's a right distinction, Trim, 
said my uncle Toby — I was answered, an't please your ho- 
nour, that he had no servant with him- — That he had come 
to the inn with hired horses ; — which, upon finding himself 
unable to proceed, (to join, I suppose, the regiment; he had 
dismissed the morning after he came. If I get better, my 
dear, said he, as he gave his purse to his son to pay the 
man — we can hire horses from hence, But alas ! the poor 
gentleman will never get from hence, said the landlady to 
me, for I heard the death-watch all night long— and when 
he dies, the youth, his sen, will certainly die with him.; 
for he is broken-hearted already. 

I was hearing this account, continued the corporal, when 
the youth came imo the kitchen, to order the thin toast the 
landiord spoke of; but I will do it for my father myself, 
said the youth. Pray let me save you the trouble, young 
gentleman, said 1, taking up a fork for the purpose, and of- 
fering him my chair to set down upon by the fire, whilst \ 
did it. I believe, Sir, said he, very modestly, I can please 
him best myself — 1 am sure, said L, his honour will not like 
the toast the worse for being toasted by an old soldier. 
The youth took hold of my hand, and instantly burst into 
tears. Poor youth ! said my uncle Toby — he has been 
bred up from an infant in the army, and the name of a sol- 
dier, Trim, sounded in his ears, like the name of a friend, 
I wish 1 had him here. 

— I never, in the longest march, said the corporal, had so 
great a mind to my dinner, as I had to cry with him for com- 
pany : — What could be the matter with me, anH please your 
honour 1 Nothing in the world, Trim, said my uncle Toby, 
blowing his nose — but that thou art a good-natured fellow. 
:-n I gave him the toast, continued the corporal, I 
thought it was proper to tell him I was Captain Shandy's 
servant, and that year honour (though a stranger) was ex- 
tremely concerned for his father ; ana that if there was any 
thing in your house or cellar — (and thou mightest have add- 
ed my purse too, said my uncle Toby) — he was heartily 
welcome to it : He made a very low bow (which was meant 
to your honour) — but no answer- — -for his heart was full ;— - 
so he went up stairs with the toast ; I warrant you, my dear, 
said I, as - : opened the kitchen door, your father will be wel 
again. Mr. Yorick's curate was smoaking a pipe by tfee 
kitchen lire, but said net a word, good or bad, to comfort 



188 LESSONS [1ST [Part I 

the 3'oufb. 1 thought it wrong, added the corporal — I think 
so too, said my uncle Toby. 

When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack, and 
toast, he felt himself a littie revived, and sent down into the 
kitchen to let me know, that in about ten minutes, he 
should be glad if 1 would step up stairs — 1 believe, said the 

landlord, he is going to say his prayers for there was 

a book laid upon the chair, by his bed side ; and as I shut 
the door, I saw his son take up a cushion. 

I thought, said the curate, that you gentlemen of the ar- 
my, Mr. Trim, never said your praj^ers at all. 1 heard the 
poor gentleman say his praj^ers last night, said the landlady, 
very devoutly, and with my own ears, or I could not have 
believed it. Are 3 r ou sure of it? replied the curate. A 
soldier, an't please your reverence, said I, prays a9 often, 
(of his own accord) as a parson ; — -and when he is lighting 
for his king, and for his own life, and for his honour too, he 
has the most reason to pray to God of any one in the whole 
world. 'Twas well said of thee, Trim, said my uncle To- 
by,-— but when a soldier, said I, aivt please your reverence, 
has been standing for twelve hours together, in the trenches, 
up to his knees in cold water — or engaged, said I, for months 
together, in long and dangerous marches : harassed, per- 
haps, in his rear to-day; harassing others to-morrow; — de- 
tached here — countermanded there — resting this night out 
upon his arms — beat up in his shirt the next — benumbed in 
his joints — perhaps without straw in his tent to kneel on — 
lie must say his prayers how and when he can. — 1 believe, 
said I — for I was piqued, quoth the corporal, for the repu- 
tation of the army— I believe, an't please your reverence, 
said I, that when a soldier gets time to pray — he prays as 
heartily as a parson — though not with all his fuss and hy- 
pocrisy. — Thou shouldest not have said that, Trim, said my 
uncle Toby — for God only knows who is a hypocrite, and 
who is not. At the great and general review of us all, cor- 
poral, at the day of judgment (and not till then) — it will be 
seen who have done their duties in this world, and who have 
not ; and we shall be advanced, Trim, accordingly. I hope 
we shall, said Trim. — It is in the scripture, said my uncle 
Toby ; and I will show it thee to-morrow: — -In the mean 
time, we may depend upon it, Trim, for our comfort, said 
ny uncle Toby, that God Almighty is so good and just a 
governor of the world, that if we have but done our duties 
in i — it will never be inquired into, whether we have done 



Sect. V.] READING. 1$$ 

them in a red coat or a black one : — I hope not, said the cor- 
poral. — But go on, Trim, said my uncle Toby, with the story. 

When I went up, continued the corporal, into the Lieu- 
tenant's room, which I did not do till the expiration of the 
ten minutes, he was laying in his hed, with his head raised 
upon his hand, his elbows upon the pillow, and a clean white 
cambric handkerchief beside it : The youth was just stoop- 
ing down to take up the cushion upon which I supposed he 
had been kneeling — the book was laid upon the bed — and as 
he roifej in taking* up the cushion with one band, he readied 
out his other to take the book away at the same time. Let 
it remain there, my dear, said the Lieutenant. 

He did not offer to speak to me, till I had walked up close 
to his bed side : If you are Captain Shandy's servant, said 
he, you must present my thanks to your master, with my 
little boy's thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me; 

—if he was of Leven's said the Lieutenant. I told him 

your honour was- then, said he, I served three campaigns 

with him in Flanders, and reniernber him; but it is most 
likely, as I had not the honour of any acquaintance with 
bun, that he knows nothing of me. You will tell him, 
however, that the person his good nature has laid under ob- 
ligations 1 ) him, is one Le Fever, a Lieutenant in Angus's 
— — n t c he knows me not— said he a second time, musing ; 
— possibly he may my story — added he — pray tell the Cap- 
tain. T was the Ensign at Breda, .whose wife was most un- 
foi billed with a musket shot, as she lay in my arms 

in my tent. — I remember the story, an't please your ho- 
nour, oaid J, very well Do you so ? said he, wiping his eyes 

with his handkerchief — then well may I. In saying this, 

he drew a little ring out of his bosom, which seemed tied 
with a black riband about his neck, and kissed it twice. — 
Here, Billy, said he— the boy flew across the room to the 
bed side, and failing down upon his knee, took the ring in 
his hand, and kissed it too, then kissed his father, and sat 
down upon the bed and wept. 

I wish, said my uncle Toby with a deep sigh- — I wish, 
Trim, I was asleep. 

Your honour, replied the corporal, is too much concerned ; 
shall I pour your honour out a glass of sack to your pipe 1 
Do, Trim, said my uncle Toby. 

I remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing again, the story 
of the ensign and his wife, and particularly well, that he as 
well as she, upon some account or other, {I forget what) wa"s 



ISO LESSONS IN [Part I. 

universally pitied by the whole regiment ; but finish the 
story. 'Tis finished already, said the corporal, lor I could 
stay no longer, so wished his. honour a good night ; young 
Le Fever rose from off the bed, and saw me to the bottom 
of the stairs ; and as we went down together, tcld me they 
had come from Ireland, and were on their rout to join the 
regiment in Flanders. But alas ! said the corporal, the 
Lieutenant's last day's march is over. Then what is to be- 
come of his poor boy ? cried my uncle Toby. 

Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Toby to 
the corporal, as he was putting him to bed, and I will tell 
thee in what, Trim. In the first place, when thou mad'st 
an oiler of my services to Le Fever, as sickness and havel- 
Img are both expensive, and thou knewest he was but a poor 
Lieutenant, with a son to subsist, as well as himself, out 
of his pay, that thou didst not make an offer to him of 
my purse ; because, had he stood in need, thou knowest, 
Trim, he had been as welcome to it as myself. Your ho- 
nour knows, said the corporal, I had no orders : True, quoth 
my uncle Toby ; thou didst very right, Trim, as a soldier, 
but certainly, very wrong as a man. 

In the second place, for which, indeed, thou hast the same 
excuse, continued my uncle Toby, when thou offeredst him 
whatever was in my house, that thou shouldest have offered 
hftia my house too., A sick brother officer should have the 
best quarters, Trim; and if we had him with us, we could 
tend and look to him; thou art an excellent nurse thyself. 
Trim ; and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's, 
and his boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him 
again at once, and set him upon his legs. 

In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, smil- 
ing, he might march. He will never march, an't please 
your honour, ra this world, said the corporal. He will 
march, said my uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the 
bed, with one shoe off. An't please your honour, said the 
corporal, he will never march, but to his grave. He shall 
march, cried my uncle Toby, marching the foot which had 
a shoe on, though without advancing an inch, he shall march 
to his regiment. He cannot stand it, said the corporal. He 
shall be supported, said my uncle Toby. He'll drop at last, 
said the corporal, and what will become of his boy 1 lie shall 
not drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly, A well o'day, do what 
we canfor him, said Trim, maintaining his point, the poor soul 
will die. He shall not die, by H — — m cried my uncle Toby. 



Sect. V,] .READING. 19i 

— The Accusing Spirit, which flew up to Heaven's 
chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in ; and the 
Recording Angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear 
upon the word, and blotted it out for ever. 

— My uncle Toby went to hid bureau, put his purse into 
his pocket, and having ordered the corporal to go early in 
the morning for a physician, he went to bed and fell asleep. 

The sun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in 
the village but Le Fever's and his afflicted son's ; the hand 
of death pressed heavy upon his eyelids, and hardly could 
the wheel at the cistern turn round its circle, when my uncle 
Toby, who had got up an hour before his wonted time, en- 
tered tho Lieutenant's room, and without preface or apolo- 
gy elf down upon the chair by the bed side, and 
independently of all rncdes and customs, opened the cur- 
tain, in the manner an old friend and brother officer would 
have done it, and asked him how he did — -hew he had rested 
in the night — what was his complaint—rwhere was his pain 
— and what he could do to help him 1 And without giving 
him time to answer any one of these inquiries, went on and 
told him of the little plan which he had been concerting 
with the corporal the night before for him, 

— You shall go home directly, Le Fever, said my uncle 
Toby, to my house— and we'll send fcr a doctor to see what's 
the matter — and we'll have an apothecary; — and the corporal 
shall be your nurse — and I'll be your servant, Le Fever. 

There was a frankness in my uncle Toby- — not the effect 
of familiarity, but the cause of it — which let you at once 
into his soul, and showed you the goodness of hh nature ; to 
this there was something in his looks, ana voice, and man- 
ner, superadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortu- 
nate to come and take shelter undc - him ; so that before my 
uncle Toby had half finished the kind oilers he was making: 
to the father, had the son insensibly pressed up close to his 
knees, and had taken hold of the breast ef his coat, and was 
pulling it towards him. The blood and spirit of Le Fever., 
which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were re- 
treating to their last citadel, the heart, rallied back — the 
film forsook his eyes for a moment, he looked up wishfully 
in my uncle Toby's face — then cast a look upon his boy. 

Nature instantly ebb'd again — the film relumed to its 
place — the pulse fluttered, stopped — went en — throbbed — « 
stopped again — moved — stopped — shall I go on 1 — No.- 



m wessons m §> a*t ; i. 

SECTION VI 
l.~~-The Shepherd and the Philosopher* 

REMOTE from cities liv'd a swain, 
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain. 
His head was silver'd o'er with age, 
And long experience made him sage 5 
In summer's heat and winter's cold, 
He fed his flock and pemrd the fold \ 
His hours in cheerful labour new, 
Nor envy nor ambition knew ; 
His wisdom and his honest fame, 
Through all the country rais'd his name. 

A deep philosopher, (whose rules 
Of moral life were drawn from schools) 
The shepherd's homely cottage sought : 
And thus explor'd his reach of thought. 
Whence is thy learning ? Hath thy toil 
O'er books consum'd the midnight oil ? 
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd^ 
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd ? 
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd ? 
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind ? 
Or, like the wise Ulysses thrown, 
By various fates, on realms unknown : 
Hast thou through many cities stray'd, 
Their customs, laws, and manners, weigh'*!., 

The shepherd modestly reply'd, 
I ne'er the paths of learning try'd ; 
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts, 
To read mankind, their laws, and arts ; 
For man is practised in disguise ; 
Ha cheats the most discerning eyes ; 
Who by that search shall wiser gro-g. 
When we ourselves can never know : 
The little knowledge I have gain'd, 
Was all from simple nature drain'd ; 
Hence my life's maxims took their rise. 
Hence grew my settled hate to vice. 

The daily labours of the bee 
Awake my* soul to industry. 
Who can observe the careful ant, 
And not provide for future want ? 
My dog, (the truest of his kind) 
With gratitude inflames my mind : 
I mark his true, his faithful way, 
And in my service copy Tray. 
In constancy and nuptial love, 
I learn my duty from the dove. 
The hen, who from the chilly air, 
With pious wing protects her care,* 



Sect. VI. ] READING. 193 

And every fowl that flies at large, 
lufctructs me in a parent's charge. 

From nature, too, I take my rule 
To shun contempt and ridicule. 
I never with important air, 
In conversation overbear : 
Can grave and formal pass for wise, 
When men the solemn owl despise ? 
&y tongue within my lips I rein, 
For who talks much must talk in vain : 
We from the worldly torrent fly : 
Who listens to the chattering pie ? 
Nor would I with felonious flight, 
By stealth invade my neighbour's right : 
Rapacious animals we hate ; 
Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve their fate, 
Bo not we just abhorrence find 
Against the toad and serpent kind ? 
But envy, calumny, and spite, 
Bear stronger venom in their bite : 
Thus every object of creation 
Can furnish hints for contemplation. 
And from the most minute and mean, 
A virtuous mind can morals glean. 

Thy fame is just, the sage replies : 
Thy virtue proves thee truly wise. 
Pride often guides the author's pen ; 
Books as afiected are as men : 
But he who studies nature's laws, 
From certain truth his maxims draws ; 
And those, without our schools, suffice 
To make men moral, good, and wise. 



II. — Ode to hero en Water, 

ON iieveri's banks while free to rove* 
And tune the rural pipe to love, 
I envied not the happiest swain 
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain. 
Pure stream ! in whose transparent wav© 
My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; 
No torrents stain thy limpid source ; 
No rocks impede thy dimpling course, 
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, 
With white, round, polish 'd pebbles spread; 
While, lightly pcis'd, the scaly brood, 
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; 
The springing trout, in speckled pride; 
The salmon, monarch of the tide ; 
The ruthless pike, intent on war ; 
The silvei eel, and mottled par. 
Dovoh ig from thy parent lake, 
A charming maze thy waters aa&kfy 



lU LESSONS IN [Part I, 

By bowers cf birch and groves of pine, 
And hedges fiower'd with eglantine. 
Still on thy banks so gaily green, 
Blay num'rous herds and flocks be seen *, 
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail ; 
And shepherds, piping in the dale ', 
And ancient faith, that knows no guile ; 
And industry, embrown'd with toil ; 
And hearts resolv'd and hands prcpar'd, 
The blessings they enjoy to guard. 

III.— Ode from the 1 9ih Psalm. 

THE spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 
And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame, 
Their great Original proclaim. 
Th' unwearied sun from day to day, 
Does his Creator's power display ', 
And publishes to ev'ry land, 
The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
The moon takes up the wond'rous tale, 
And, nightly, to the list'ning earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her burn > 
And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though no real voice nor sound 
Amid these radiant orbs be found ? 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
For ever singing, as they shine, 
H The hand that made us is divine." 

IV.—- Rural Charms. 

SW22BT Auburn ! loveliest village ef the plain ; 
Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain ; 
Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid, 
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd : 
Dear lovely flowers of innocence and ease! 
Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please! 
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endear'd each scenol 
How often have I paus'd on ev'ry charm ! 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church, that topp'd the neighfowlng hill ; 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath tk« shade. 
For talking ^9 an4 *Ktopea»g lovori made. 



Sect. VI.] READING. - 195 

How often fefcve I bless'd the coming day, 

When toil remitting, lent its turn to "play, 

And all tho, village train from labour free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ! 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old survey'd : 

And many a gambor frolick'd o'er the ground, 

And slights of arts and feats of strength went rounds 

And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd : 

The dancing pair, that simply sought renown, 

By holding out to tire each other down ; 

The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter titter'd round the place : 

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 

The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below, 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung ; 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool ; 
The playful children just let loose from school ; 
The watch dog's voice, that bay'd the whisp'ring wind ; 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
These all, in soft confusion, sought the shade, 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 



V. — The Painter who pleased Nobody and Every Body* 

LEST men suspect your tale untrue, 
Keep probability in view. 
The trav'ller leaping o'er those bounds, 
The credit of his book confounds, 
Who with his tongue hath armies routed^ 
Makes e'en his real courage doubted. 
But rlatt'ry never seems absurd ; 
The flatter d always take your word ; 
Impossibilities seem just ; 
They take the strongest praise on trust \ 
Hyperboles, though e'er so great, 
Will still come short of self-conceit, 

So very like a painter drew, 
That ev'ry eye the picture knew j 
He hit complexion, feature, air, 
So just, that life itself was there ^ 
No rlatt'ry with his colours laid, ^ 

To bloom restored the faded maid ; 
He gave each muscle all its strength ; 
The mouth, the chin, the nose's lengthj* 
His honest pencil touch'd with truth, 
And mark'd the date of age and youth. 



IDS LESSONS IN [Part I. 

Ho lost his friends ; his practice fail'd ; 
Truth should not always be reveal'd ; 
In dusty piles his pictures lay, 
For no one sent the second pay. 

Two busto's, fraught with ev'ry grace, 
A Venus' and A polio's face, 
He plac'd in view, reeolv'd to please, 
Whoever sat, he drew from these ; 
From these corrected every feature, 
And spirited each awkward creature. 

AH things were set ; the hour was come, 
His palette ready o'er his thumb : 
My Lord appear'd, and seated right, 
In proper attitude and light. 
The painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece ; 
Then dipp'd his pencil, talk'd of Greece, 
Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air, 
u Those eyes, my Lo*d, the spirit there ? 
Might well a Raphael's hand require, 
To give them all their native fire y 
The features, fraught with sense and wh, 
Yoa'll grant, are very hard to hit : 
But jet } with patience, you shall view 
As much as paint or art can do : 
Observe the work." — My Lord reply 'd, 
<v Till now I thought my mouth was wide : 
Besides, my nose is somewhat long ; 
Dear gir, for me 'tis far too young,'* 
*' O pardon me," the artist cry'd, 
* f In this, we painters must decide. 
The piece e'en common eyes must strike; 
1 warrant it extremely like." 
My Lord examin'd it anew, 
No looking-glass seem'd half so true. 

A lady came. With borrow'd grace, 
He from his Venus form'd her face. 
Her lover praisd the painter's art, 
So like the picture in his heart 1 
To ev'ry age some charms he lent j 
E'en beauties were almost content. 
Through all the town his art they prais'd, 
His custom grew, his price was rais'd. 
Had he the real likeness shown, 
Would any man the picture own ? 
But when thus happily he wrought, 
Bach found the likeness in his thought 



Yl.— Diversity in the Human Character. 

VIRTUOUS and vicious every man must be, 
Few in tfi* extreme, but all in th' degree : 
The rogue and fool by hts are fair and wise, 
And e'en the best, by fits what they despise 



Sect. VI.] READING. 197 

'Tis but by part we follow good or ill, 

For, Vice or Virtue, self directs it still ; 

Each individual seeks a sev'ral goal ; 

But Heaven's great view is one, and that the whole j 

That counterworks each folly and caprice ; 

That disappoints th' effect of ev'ry vice ; 

That happy frailties to all ranks apply'd — 

Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride, 

Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief, 

To kings presumption, and to crowds belief. 

That Virtue's end from vanity can raise, 

Which seeks no int'rest, no reward but praise ; 

And build on wants, and on defects of mind, 

The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind. 

Heaven, forming each on other to depend, 
A master, or a servant, or a friend, 
Bids each on other for assistance call, 
Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all, 
Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally 
The common int'rest, or endear the tie. 
To those we owe true friendship, love sincere,, 
Each homefelt joy that life inherits here ; 
Yet from the same, we learn in its decline, 
Those joys, those loves, those int'rests to resign. 
Taught half by reason, half by mere decay, 
To welcome death, and calmly pass away. 

Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, 
Not one would change his neighbour with himself. 
The learn'd is happy, nature to explore, 
The fool is happy that he kxiows no more ; 
The rich is happy in the plenty given, 
The poor contents him with the care of heav'n •, 
See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, 
The sot a hero, lunatic a king ; 
The starving chymist in his golden view3 
Supremely blest, the poet in his muse. 

See some strange comfort ev'ry state attend, 
And pride, bestow'd on all, a common friend ; 
See some fit passion ev'ry age supply, 
Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die. 

Behold the child, by nature's kindly law, 
Pleas'd with a rattle, tickled with a straw ; 
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight ; 
A little louder, but as empty quite ; 
Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, 
And cards and counters are the toys of age ; 
Pleas'd with this bauble still, as that before ; 
Till tir'd he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er. 

Meanwhile opinion gilds, with varying rays ? 
Those painted clouds that beautify our days; 
Each want of happiness by hope supply 'd, 
And each vacuity of sense by pride, 
R2 



198 LESSONS IN [Part X 

These build as fast as knowledge can destroy : 
In folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy : 
One prospect lost, another still we gain, 
And not a vanity is giv'n in yain : 
E'en mean self-love becomes, by force divine, 
The scale to measure others' wants by thine. 
See ! and confess, one comfort still must rise ; 
'Tis this : Though man's a fool, yet God is wise. 

VII— The Toilet 

AND now unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd. 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores. 
With head uncover'd the cosmetic pow'rs. . 
A heav'nly image in the glass appears ; 
To that she bends, to that her eye she rears* 
Th' inferior priestess, at the altar's side. 
Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. _ 
Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here 
The various ofFrings of the world appear ; 
From each, she nicely culls, with curious toil, 
And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil, ' 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. 
The tortoise here, and elephant unite, 
Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white y. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms, 
The fair, each moment, rises in her charms, 
Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her facev 

VIII— The Hermit 

FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, 
From youth to age, a rev'rend hermit grew. 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well \ m 
Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days ; 
Prayer all his bus'ncss, all his pleasure praise. 

A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seem'd heav'n itself, till one suggestion rose : 
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; 
Thus sprung some doubt of Providence's sway. 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenor of his soul is lost. 
So when a smooth expanse receives, imprest, 
Calm nature's image on its wat'ry breast, 
Down bend the banks ; the trees, depending grow ; 
And skies, beneath, with answ'ring colours glow; 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift ruffling circles giui ou ev'ry side ; 



Sect. VI.] READING. 191 

And glimm'ring fragments of a broken sun," 
Banks, seas, and skies, in thick disorder run. 

To clear this doubt ; to know tiie world by sight 
To find if books o: swains report it right ; 
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
Whose feet came wand'ring o'er the nightly dew.) 
He quits his cell ; the pilgrim staff he bore, 
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ; 
Then, with the sun a rising journey went, 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 
The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, 
And long and lonesome was tne wild to pass; 
But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, 
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair. 
And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair. 
Then, near approaching, Father hail ! he cry'd ; 
And, hail ! my son, the rev'rend sire reply'd ; 
Words follow'd words ; from question answer flow'd ; 
And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road ; 
Till, each with other pleas'd, and loath to part, 
While in their age they differ, join in heart. 
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound ; 
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 
Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day, 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 
Nature, in silence, bid the world repose ; 
When, near the road, a stately palace rose ; 
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass, 
Whose verdure crown 'd their sloping sides with grass, 
It chane'd the noble master of the dome, 
Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's home; 
Yet still, the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease, 
The pair arrive ; the liv'ry servants wait, 
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate: 
A table groans with costly pile3 of food ; 
And all is more than hospitably good. 
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, 
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 

At length 'tis morn ; and at the dawn of day, 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres, the breezes creep, 
And shake the neighb'ring wood, to banish sleep, 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call ; 
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall ; 
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grae'd, 
Which the kind master fore'd the guests to taste. 
Then, pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they go. 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of wo. 
His cup was vanish 'd ) for, in secret guise. 
The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. 



LESSONS IN [Part L 

A3 one who sees a serpent in his way, 
Glist'ning and basking in the summer ray, 
Disorder'd stops, to shun the danger near, 
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear \ 
So seenvd the sire, when, far upon the road, 
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. 
He stopt with silence, walk'd with trembling heart j 
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask, to part : 
Marm'ring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard 
That gen'rous actions meet a base reward. 

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds ; 
The changing skies hang out their sable elouds : 
A sound in air presag'd approaching rain ; 
And beasts to covet, scud across the plain. 
Warn'd by the signs, the wand'ring pair retreat, 
To seek for shelter in a neighb'ring seat : 
: Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground ; 
And strong and large, and unimprov'd around : 
Its owner's temper, tim'rous and severe, 
Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there. 
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, 
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
The nimble lightning, mix'd with showers, began ; 
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran. 
Here long they knock ; but knock or call in vain ', 
Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. 
At length, some pity warrn'd the master's breast ', 
('Twas then his threshold first receiv'd a guest ;) 
Slow creaking turns the door, with jealous care, 
And half he welcomes in the shiv'ring pair. 
One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, 
And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls > 
Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine, 
(Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to dine ; 
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, 
A ready warning bid them part in peace. 

With still remark, the pond'ring hermit view'd, 
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude : 
.And why should such, (within himself he cry'd) 
Lock the lost wealth, a thousand want beside ? 
But, what new marks of wonder soon took place, 
In ev'ry settling feature of his face, 
When, from his vest, the young companion bore 
That cup the gen'rous landlord own'd before, 
And paid profusely with the precious bowl, 
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! 
But, now the clouds in airy tumults fly : 
The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky ; 
A fresher green the smiling leaves display, 
And, glitt'ring as they tremble, cheer the day : 
The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 



Sect. VI.] READING. tO< 

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought 
With all the travail of uncertain thought. 
His partner's acts without their cause appear ; 

i -as there a vice* .and seem'd a madness here, 
Deiesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky ; 1 
Again the wand'rers want a place to lie ; > 

Again they search, and find a lodging nigh : } 

The soil irrrprev'd around ; the mansion neat ; 
And neither poorly low, nor idly great ; 
It seem'd to speak its master's tarn of mind : 
Content, and not for praise, but virtue kind. 
Hither the walkers turn, with weary feet ; 
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet';. 
Their greeting fair, bestow d with modest guise., 
The courteous master hears, and thus replies : — 

" Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 
To him who gives us ail, I yield a part: 
From him you come, from him accept it here*** 
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer/' 
He spoke : and bade the welcome tables spread ; 
Then tailed of virtue till the time of bed : 
When the grave household round his hall repair, 
Warn'd by the bell, and close the hour with prayer. 

At length the world, renew'd by calm reposa, 
Was strong for toil ; the dappl'd morn arose ; 
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
Keaif the clcs'd cradle, where an infant step*. 
And writh'd Ms neck ; the land lord's little pride — 
O strange reium !— grew black, and gasp'd, and died. 
Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! 
Iluw look'd our hermit when the deed was done ! 
Not hell, though heii's black jaws in sunder part, 
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. 

Confus'd and struck with silence at the deed,> 
He Bios: but trembling, fails to fly with speed, 
His steps the youth pursues. The country lay 
Perplex' d with roads ; a servant show'd the way. 
A river cross'd the path; The passage o'er 
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; 
Long arms of oak an open bridge supply 'd, 
And the deep waves beneath the bending, glide. 
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, 
Approach/ d the careless guide, and thrust him in; 
Plimging he falls ; and rising, lifts his head ; 
Then splashing-, turns, and sinks among the dead. 
Wild sparkling- rage inflames the fathers eyes: 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 

Detested wretch ! But scarce his speech began^ 

When the strange partner seeni'd no longer man ° t 



202 LESSONS IN [Par* I, 

His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air ; 
And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day, 
Wide at his back, their gradual piume3 display. 
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, 
And moves in ail the majesty of light. 

Though loud, at first, the pilgrim's passion grew, 
Sudden he gas 7 d, and wist not what to do ; 
Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends ) 
And, in a cairn, his settled temper ends. 
But silence here, the beauteous angel broke : 
The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke. 

Thy pray'r, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne, 
These charms success in our bright region find, 
And force an angel down to calm thy mind. 
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky \ £ 

Nay, cease to kneel, thy fellow servant I. 

Then know the truth of government divine, 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 

The Maker justly claims that world he made-; 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty, through all depends, 
On using second means to work his ends, 

'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, 
The Pow'r exerts his attributes on high ; 
Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 

What strange events can strike with more surprise; 
Than those which lately struck thy wond'ring eyes? 
Yet taught by these, eonfess th r Almighty just, 
And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. 

The great, vain man, wiio far'd on costly food ; 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
And forcd his guests to morning draughts cf wine ; 
Has, with the enp, the gracelers custom lost, 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 

The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolted doo? 
Ne'er mov'd in pity to the wand'ring poor; 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind, 
That Heav'n can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
With heaping coals of fire upon its head : 
In the kind warmth, the metal learns to glow, 
And loose from dross, the silver runs below. 

Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, 
But now, the child half wean'd his heart from God 



Sect. 1] READING, 203 

(Child of his a?e) for him he livM in pain. 
And measur'd back his steps to earth again, 
To what excesses had his dotage run ? 
But God, to save the Father, Look the son. 
To all, hut thee, in fits he seem'd to go, 
And 'twas nsy ministry to deal the blow. 
The poor fond parent, huinbl«.d in the dust. 
Now owns in tears, the punishment was. just. 

But how had all his fortune felt a wreck, 
Had that fake servant sped in safety hack ? 
This night his treasur'd heap; he meant to steal, 
And what a fund of charity would fail ? 

Thus Heav'n instructs thy mind. This trial o'er, 
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more. 

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew*., 
The sage stood won d 'ring as the seraph flew. 
Thus look'd Elisha, when to mount on high, 
His master took the chariot of the sky : 
The fi'ry pomp, ascending, left the view ; 
The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow too. 

The bending hermit here a pray'r begun : 
11 Lord, as in Heav'n, on earth thy will be done." 
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, 
And pass'd a life of piety and peace. 

IX. — On ike Death of Mrs. Mason. 

TAKE, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear; 

Take that best gift, which Heav'n so lately gave$ 
To Bristol's fount I bore, with trembling care, 

Her faded form. She bow'd to taste the wave— 

And died. Does youth, does beauty read the line ? 

Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ! 
Speak, dead Maria. ! breathe a strain divine ; 

E'en from the grave thou shalt have pow'r to chang, 
Bid them be chaste, be innocent like thee ; 

Bid them in duty's sphere, as meekly move ? 
And if as fair, from vanity as free, 

As firm in friendship, and as fond in love ; 
Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, 

('Twas e'en to thee) yet the dread path once trod, 
Heav'n lifts its everlasting portals high, 

And bids the " pure in heart behold their God; w 

X.— Extract from the Temple of Fame* 

AROUND these wonders as I cast a look, 
The trumpet sounded and the temple shook ; 
And all the nations summon 'd at the call, 
From diiPrent quarters fill the spacious ball. 
Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard J 
in various garbs promiscuous throngs appear'd ; 



204 LESSONS IN [Part J. 

Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend, 
And all degrees before the goddess bend ; 
The poor, the rich, the valiant, and the sage, 
And boasting youth, and narrative old age. 

First, at the shrine, the learned world appear. 
And to the goddess thus prefer their pray'r : 
" Long have we sought t' instruct and please mankind. 
With studies pale, and midnight vigils blind : 
But thank'd by few, rewarded yet by none, 
We here appeal to thy superior throne ; 
On wit and learning the just prize bestow, 
For fame is all we must expect below." 
The goddess heard, and bid the muses raise 
The golden trumpet of eternal praise. 
From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound, 
And fill the circuit of the world around: 
Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud. 
The notes at first were rather sweet than loud : 
By just degrees they ev'ry moment rise, 
Spread round the earth, and gain upon the skies', 

Next these, the good and just, an awful train, 
Thus on their knees, address the sacred fane :— 
t: Since living virtue is with envy curs'd, 
And the best men are treated as the worst, 
Do thou, just goddess, call our merits forth, 
And give each deed th' exact intrinsic worth." 
"Not with bare justice shall your acts be crown'dj, 
(Said Fame) but high above desert renown'd, 
jLet fuller notes th' applauding world amaze, 
And the loud clarion labour in your praise." 

A troop came next, who crowns and armour worg, 
.'And proud defiance in their looks they bore. 
" For thee (they cry'd) amidst alarms and strife, 
We sail'd in tempests down the stream of life : 
For thee, whole nations fill'd with fire and bloody 
And swam to empire through the purple flood. 
Those ills we dar'd thy inspiration own : 
What virtues seem'd was done for thee alone." 
" Ambitious fools ! (the queen reply'd and frown 'd) 
Be ail your deeds in dark oblivion drown'd ; 
There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone, 
Your statues moulder-d, and your names unknown.'* 
A sudden cloud strait snatch'd them from my siglit, 
And each majestic phantom sunk in night. 

Then came the smallest tribe 'I yet hud seen; 
Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien : 
u Great idol of mankind, we never claim 
The praise of merit, nor aspire to. fame ; 
But, safe in deserts from th' applause of men, 
Would die unheard of as we liv'd unseen. 
? Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight, 
Those acts of goodness which themselves requite 



3r.c7. VI.] READING. £06 

O : let as still the sacred joy partake, 
To follow virtue, e'en for virtue's sake/' 
" And jive there men who slight immortal tame ? ' 
Who, then, with incense shall adore our name ? 
But, mortals know, 'tis still our greatest pride, 
To blaze those virtues which the good would hide, 
Rise, muses, rise i arid all you? tunefuj breath, 
These mast not sleep in darkness and in death, 5 ' 
She said. In air the trembling music floats, 
And on the winds triumphant swell the notes ; 
80 soft, though high ; so loud, and yet so clear, 
E'en IBt'ning angels lean from heaven to hear j 
To farthest shores the ambrosial spirit flies, 
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies, 

XL — Panegyric on Great Britain, 

HEAVENS ! what a goodly prospect spreads around. 
Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires, 
And glitt'ring towns, and gildod streams, till all 
The "tretcliing landscape into smoke decays] 
Happy Britannia! where the Queen of Arts, 
1, spiring vigour, Liberty v abroad 
W 'ks, unconfm'd even to thy farthest cots, 
And scatters plenty with unsparing hand. 

Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime ; 
Thy streams unfailing in the summer's drought, 
Un match VI thy guardian oaks ; thy vallies float 
With golden waves ; and on thy mountains, flocks 
Bleat numberless ; while roving round their sides, 
Bellow tin 1 - black'ning herds in lusty droves. 
Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unequall'd 
Against the mower's scythe. On every hand 
Thy alias shine. Thy country teems with wealth, 
And property assures it to the swain, 
Pleas'd and unwearied in his guarded toil. 

Full are thy cities with the sons of art — 
And trade and joy, in every busy street, 
Mingling are heard ! even drudgery himself, 
As at the car he sweats, or, dusty, hews 
The palace stone, looks gay. The crowded portej 
Where rising masts, and endless prospect yield. 
With labour burn, and echo to the shouts 
Of hurried sailor, as he hearty waves 
His last adieu, and loosening every sheet, 
Resigns the spreading vessel to the wind. 
Bold, firm and graceful are thy gen'rous youth # 
By hardship sinew'd, and by danger fir'd, 
Scattering the nations where they go ; and first 
Or on the listed plain, or stormy seas. 
Mild are thy glories too, as o'er the plains 
Of thriving peace thy thoughtful sires preside; 
la geniua and aubstaaUal learning, high ; 
I 



LESSONS IN j [Part L 

For every virtue, every worth renawn'd . f 
Sincere, plain hearted, hospitable, kind ; 
Yet, like the mutt'ring thunder, when provok'd, 
The dread of tyrants, and the sole resource 
Of those that under grim oppression groan* 

Thy sons of Glory many ! Alfred thine, 
In whom the splendor of heroic war, 
And more heroic peace, when govern'd well, 
Combine ! whose hallow'd name the virtues saint, 
And his own Muses love ; the best of kings ! 
With him thy Edwards and thy Henrys shine, 
Names dear to fame ; the first who deep impressed 
On haughty Gaul the terror of thy arms, 
That awes her genius still. In statesmen thou. 
And patriots, fertile. Thine a steady More, 
Who, with a generous, though mistaken zeal, 
Withstood a brutal tyrant's useful rage ; 
Like Cato firm, like Aristidesjust, 
Like rigid Cincinnatus nobly poor, 
A dauntless soul erect, who smil'd on death. 
A Hampden too is. thine, illustrious land ! 
Wise, strenuous, firm, of unsubmitting soul ; 
Who stemm'd the torrent of a downward age, 
To slavery prone, and bade thee rise again, 
In all thy native pomp of freedom bold. 
Thine is a Bacon ; hapless in his choice j 
XJnfit to stand the civil storm of state, 
And through the smooth barbarity of courts, 
With firm but pliant virtue, forward still 
To urge his course ; him for the studious shade 
Kind nature Hbrm'd, deep, comprehensive, clear, 
Exact and elegant ; in one rich soul, 
Plato, the Stagyrite, and Tully join'd. 
Let Newton, pure intelligence, whom God 
To mortals lent to trace his boundless works 
From laws sublimely simple, speak thy fame 
In all philosophy. For lofty sense, 
Creative fancy and inspection keen, 
Through the deep windings of the human heart 
Is not wild Shakespeare thine and nature's boast? 
Is not each great, each amiable Muse 
Of classic ages in thy Milton met ? 
A genius universal as his theme : 
Astonishing as chaos, as the bloom I 

Of blowing Eden fair, as heaven sublime. 

May my song soften, as thy Daughters I, 
Britannia, hail ! for beauty is their own, 
The feeling heart, simplicity of life, 
And elegance, and taste ; the faultless form, 
Shap'd by the hand of harmony ; the cheek, 
Where the live crimson, through the native white f 
Soft shooting, o'&r the face diffuses bloom, 



Stir: VI. J READING, 2Q7 

And every nameless grace ; the parted lip, 
Like the red rose-bud moist vyiih morning dew, 
Breathing delight; and. under flowing jet, 
. Or sunny ringlets, or of circling brown, 
The necks light-shaded, and the swelling breast ; 
The look resistless, piercing to the soul, 
And by the soul inform'd, when drest in love 
She sits high smiling in the conscious eye. 

Tsland of bliss ! amid the subject seas, 
That thunder round thy rocky coasts, set up, 
At orree the wonder, terror, and delight 
Of distant nations, whose remotest shores 
Can soon be shaken by thy naval arm ; 
Not. to be shook thyself, but ali assaults 
Baffling, as thy hoar cliffs the loud sea wave.) 

O thou ! by whose Almighty nod, the scale 
Of empire rises, or alternate falls, 
Send forth thy saving virtues round the land, 
In bright patrol ; white Peace, and social Love ; 
The tender looking Charity, intent 
On gentle deeds, and shedding tears through smiles 
Undaunted Truth and Dignity of mind ; 
Courage compos'd and keen — sound Temperance, 
Healthful in heart and look — clear Chastity, 
With blushes reddening as she moves along, 
Disorderd at the deep regard she draws — 
Rough Industry — Activity untir'd, 
With copious life inform'd, and ail awake — ■ 
While in the radiant front superior shines 
That first paternal virtue, Public Zeal — 
Who throws o'er all an equal wide survey, 
And. ever musing on the common weal, 
Still labours glorious with some great design, 

XII. — Hymn to the Deity on the Seasons of the Year, 

THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
Wide flush the fields — the softening air is balm— 
Echo the mountains round — the forests smile ; 
And every sense, and every heart is joy. 
Then comes thy gloiy in the summer months, 
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun 
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year* 
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speak3 ; 
And oft, at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
By brooks and groves and hollow whispering gales. 
Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfm'd, 
And spreads a common feast for all that live. 
In winter, awful thou ! with clouds and storms 
Around thee thrown— tempest o'er tempest roll'd : 



LESSONS IN [Pap.t 1. 

Maiestic darkness (« on the v/I|irhvind's wing 
Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, 
And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 

Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, 
Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train— * 
Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, 
Such beauty and beneficence combin'd— - 
Shade, unperceiv'd, so softening into shade—* 
And all so forming a. harmonious wh» .le— 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But, wnnd'ring oft w T ith brute unconscious gaze, 
Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand, 
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres — 
Works in the secret deep — -shoots, streaming, thence 
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring — 
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day : 
Feeds every creature^ — hurls the tempest forth : 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
With, transport touches all the springs of life. 

Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
I)i adoration join — -and, ardent, raise 
One general song ! To ]nm, ye vocal gales, 
Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes : 
O talk of him in solitary glooms! 
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
Who shakes tit' astonish'd world, lift high to heaven 
Th" impetuous sons:, and say from whom you rage. 
His praise, ye bropks, attune, ye trembling rills— 
And lei me catch it as I muse along. 
Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound — 
Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
Along the vale — and thou majestic main, 
A secret world of wonders in thyself— 
Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice 
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 
In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts, 
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints 
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave to him : 
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
As home lie goes beneath the joyous .noon. 
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 
Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
Great source of day ! best image here below, 
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
From world to world, the vital ocean round, 
On nature write with every beam his praise. 



vi] 



READING. 209 



Ye thunders roll ; be hush'd the prostrate world, 

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 

Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks 

Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, 

Ye vallies raise ; for the great Shepherd reigns, 

And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 

Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 

Burst from the groves : and when the restless day, 

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 

Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 

The list'ning shades, and leach the night his praise. 

Yet chief, for whom the whole creation smiles ; 

At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all : 

Crown the great hymn \ In swarming cities vast, 

Assembled men. to the deep organ join 

The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear, 

At solemn pauses, through the swelling base ; 

And as each mingling flame increases each, 

In one united ardour rise to heaven. 

Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 

And find a fane in every sacred grove — 

There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 

The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 

Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. 

For me, when I forget the darling theme, 

Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray 

Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams ; 

Or winter rises in the blackening east : 

Be my tongue mule, my fancy paint no more, 

And, dead to- joy. forget my heart to beat ! 

Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barb'rous climes, 
Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to me ; 
Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste as in the city full"; 
And where He vital spreads, there must be joy. 
When even at last the solemn hour shall come. 
And wing ray mystic flight to future worlds, 
I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, 
Will rising wonders sing — I cannot go, 
Where Universal Love smiles not around. 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns : 
From seeming evil still adducing good, : 

And feeder thence again, and better still, 

In infinite progression but I lose 

Myself in Him, in Light Ineffable I 

Come then, expressive Silence, muse His praise. 



2io LESSONS IN [Part I. 

SECTION VII. 

1. — The Chameleon. 

OFT has it been my lot to mark 
A proud, conceited, talking spark. 
Returning from his finish 'd tour, 
Grown ten times perter than before : 
Whatever word you chance to drop, 
The travel I'd fool your mouth will stop-*- 
" Sir, if my judgment you'll allow — 
I've seen — and sure I ought to know." 
So begs you'd pay a due submission, 
And acquiesce in his decision. 

Two travellers of such a cast, 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd, 
And on their way, in friendly chat, 
Now talk'd of this, and then of that; 
Discours'd a while 'mongst other matter f 
Of the Chameleon's form and nature. 
" A stranger animal," cries one, 
" Sure never liv'd beneath the sun ! 
A lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, 
Its foot with tripple claws disjoin'd, 
And what a length of tail behind ! 
How slow its pace ! and then its hue — • 
Who ever saw so fine a blue !" 

" Hold there," the other quick replies, 
u 'Tis green : I saw it with these eyes, 
As late with open mouth it lay, 
And warm'd it in the sunny ray : 
Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd, 
And saw it eat the air for food." 

" I've seen it, Sir, as well as you, 
And must again affirm it blue. 
At leisure I the beast survey'd, 
Extended in the cooling shade." 

" 'Tis green! 'tis green, Sir, I assure ye"-— 
" Green !"' cries the other, in a fury — 
" Why, Sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes ?" 
"'Twere no great loss," the friend replies; 
" For if they always serve you thus, 
You'll find them but of little use." _ . 

So high at last the contest rose, 
From words they almost came to blows: 
When luckily came by a third ; 
To him the question they referr'd, 
And begg'd he'd tell them, if he knew f 
Whether the thing was green or blue. 

" Sirs," cries the umpire, " cease your pother^ 
The creature's— neither one nor t'other. 



Sect. VII] READING. 211 

I caught the animal last night, 
^.nd view'd it o'er by candle light : 

I mark'd it well — 'twas black as jet — 
You stare — but, Sirs, I've got it yet, 
And can produce it."-— " Pray Sir, da; 
I'll lay my life the thing is blue." — 

" And I'll be sworn, that when you've seea 
The reptile, you'll pronounce it green." — 

II Well then, at once to end the doubt ;" 
Replies the man, " I'll turn him out ; 
And when before your eyes I've set him, 
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." 
He said — then full before their sight 
Produc'd the beast — and lo ! — 'twas white. 

II. — On the Order of Nature. 

SEE, through this air, this ocean, and this earthy 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, how high, progressive life may go ! 
Around, how wide 1 How deep extend below ! 
Vast chain of being ! which from God began : 
Nature's ethereal, human ; angel, man ; 
Beast, bird, fish, insect, What no eye can see, 
No glass can reach ; from infinite to thee, 
From thee to nothing. On superior pow'rs 
Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; 
Or in the full creation leave a void, 
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd; 
From nature's chain whatever link you strike, 
Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike, 

What if the foot, ordain'd the llust to tread, 
Or hand to toil, aspir'd to be the head ? 
What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd 
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another, in this general frame : 
Just a3 absurd, to mourn the tasks or paine, 
The great directing Mind of All, ordains. 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul : 
That, chang'd through all, and yet in all the same, 
Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame, 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full, as perfect in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all 



H2 LESSONS IN [Part 1. 

Cease, then, nor Order, imperfection name f 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point : this kind, this due degree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee, 
Submit. — In this or any other sphere, 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : 
Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r, 
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
All Nature is but Art unknown to thee ; 
All Chance, Direction which thou canst not see ; 
All Discord, Harmony not understood ; 
All partial Evil, universal Good : 
And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, 
One truth is clear, — " Whatever is, is right." 

III. — Description of a Country Alehouse. 

NEAR yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye ; 
Low lies that house, where nutbrown draughts inspir'd; 
Where graybeard mirth, and smiling toil, retir'd : 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops, to trace 
The parlour splendors of that festive place ; 
The white-wash'd wall ; the nicely sanded floor; 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; 
The chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; ; 

The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules the royal game of goose : 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel, gay ; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 

Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ! 
Obscure it sinks ; nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care. 
No more the farmers news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his pond'rous strength and lean to hear. 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid half willing to be press'd, 
Shall kiss the cup, to pass it to the rest. 

IV. — Character of a Country Schoolmaster. 

BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 

With blo^som'd furze, unprofitably gay. 



Sect. VII.] READING. 213 

There, in his noisy mansion skill' J to rule. 

The v*ilage master taught his little School, 

A man severe he was, and stern to view : 

I knew him well, and every truant knew.. 

Well had the boding tremblers leaili'd to trace 

The day's disasters in his morning face : 

Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee^ 

At all his jokes — -for many a joke had he : 

Full well the busy whisper circling round, 

Convey'd the dismal tidings when he trown'd, 

Yet he was kind ; or if severe in. aught, 

The love he bore to learning was- in fault. 

The village all declar'd how much he knew : 

'Twas certain he could write and cipher too : 

Lands he could measure ; terms and tides presage; 

And e'en the story ran that he could— gauge 

In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill j 

For e'en though vanqui-Vd, ho could argue still ; 

While words cf learned length, and thundering sound # 

Amaz'd the gazing rustics, rang'd around ; 

And still they gaz'd ; and still the wonder grew, 

That one small Lead' could carry all he knew. 



on and Ljavima, 



V. --Story of Fa ! e. 

THE lovely young Lavinia once had friends, 
And fortune smil'd deceitful* on her birth. 
For, in her helpless year::, deprived of all, 
Of everv stay* save inn 



« 



■•ven, 



She, with her widow'd mother, ieebfe, old, 

poor 3 l^d in a cottage far retir'd 
Among the windings of aw h dy vale : 
By sol kudo and deep surrounding shades, 
But more by bashful modesty, concealed. 
Together, thus they sbunn'd the cruel scorn, 
Which virtue, sun'- to poverty, wqul.d meet 
From giddy passion and low-minded pride; 
Almost on nature's common bounty ted; 
Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, 
Content, and careless of to-morrow s fare. 

Her form was fresher than the son ihg rose, 
When the dew wets its leaves ; unst en'd and pure 
As is the lily, or the mountain snow. 
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes, 
Still en the ground dejected, darting" ail 
Their humid beams intot e blooming flowers \ 
Or, when the mournful tale her mother told, 
Or what her faithless fortune promised once, 
ThrilPd in her thought, they like the dewy star 
Of ev'ning, shone in tears. A native grace 
Sat fair proportioned on her pblish'd limbs, 
Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire, 
Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness 



LESSONS IN [Part I, 

Keeeh net the foreign aid of ornament, 

But is, when unadorn'd, sdonrd the most, 

Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's celf^ 

Recluse amid the close embow'ring woods. 
As in the hollow breast of Appenine, 

Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, 

A myrtle rises, far from human eye, 

And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild : 

So fiourish'd, blooming, and unseen by all, 

The sweet Lavinia : till at length ccmpell'd 

By strong necessity's supreme command, 

With smiling patience in her looks, she went 

To glean Palemon's fields. — The pride of swains 

Palemon was ; the generous, and the rich : 

Who led the rural Life, in ail its joy 

And elegance, such as Arcadian song 

Transmits from ancient unccrrupted times ; 

When tyrant Custom had not shackled man, 

But free to follow natcre, was the mode. 

He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes 

Amusing, chanc'd beside his reaper train 

To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye ? 

Unconscious of her pow'r, and turning quick 

With unaffected blushes from his gaze : 

He saw her charming ; but he saw not half 

The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd. 

That very moment love and chaste desire 

Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown ; 
For still the world prevaifd, and its dread laugh, 

(Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn) 
Should his heart own a gleaner in the field ; 
And thus, in secret, to his soul he sigh'd, 

" What pity, that so delicate a farm, 
By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense, 
And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell. 
Should be devoted to the rude embrace 
Of some indecent clown ! She looks, methinks, 
Of old Acasto's line : and to my mind 
Recalls that patron of my happy life, 
From whom my liberal fortune took its rise ; 
Now to the dust gone down, his houses, lands, 
And once fair spreading family, dissolved. 
Tis said, that, in some lone, obscure retreat, 
Urg'd by remembrance sad and decent pride, 
Far from those scenes which knew their better days. 
His aged widow and his daughter live, 
Whom yet my fruitless search could never find. 
Romantic wish ! would this the daughter were !" 

When strict inquiring, from herself he found 
She was the same, the daughter of his friend, 
Of Bountiful Acasto — who can speak 
The mingled passions that surpris'd his heart, 



hivering transport 
anie, avow'd and 


rah ! 

hold I 


at o'er and o'er, 




ept e 

is siin 

hiff] 


Ideii tear^ 

ler bioom ; 




J of 1 


lis souL 




;uiJe 


deai remains 
has nought 


? 


the 

obl«3 


vry samej 
friend : 





Sect, VII. &EADIKG. Sll 

And tliroilgh his nerves in 
Then biaz'd his smother'a* 
And as he vie^ d her, &rd< 
Love, gratitude, and piifi i 
Confus'd e-rA iW^ij^n'd at 
Her rising beauties fiush'.d 
As thus Falemonj passion a 
Pour'd out the pious rapt.u: 

" And art thou, then, Ac 
She Whom my restless grat 
80 long in vain ?-^-Oh 3 as ! 
The soften'd image of my noble : 
Alive, his every feature, every look, 
More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than Spring J 
Thou sole surviving blossom from the root 
That nourish'd up ray fortune ! say, ah ! where. 
In what seqitester'd desert, hast thou drawn 
The kindest aspect of delighted heaven ! 
Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair, 
Though poverty's cold wind and rushing rain 
Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years, 
Oh, let me now into a richer soil 
Transplant thee safe, where vernal suns and showers. 
Diffuse their warmest; largest influence ; 
And of my garden be the pride and joy. 
Ill it befits thee, oh ! it ill befits 
Acasto's daughter, his whose open stores, 
Though vast, were little to his ampler heart, 
The father of a country, thus to pick 
The very refuse of those harvest-fields, 
Which from his bounteous friendship I enjoy. 
Then throw that shameful pittance from thy hand, 
But ill applied to such a rugged task : 
The-fields, the master, all, my fair are thine ; 
If to the various blessings which thy house 
Has on me lavished, thou wilt add that bliss, 
Tha.t dearest bliss, the power of blessing thee !" 

Here ceas'd the youth ; yet still his speaking eye 
Express'd the sacred triumph of his soul, 
With conscious virtue, gratitude, and love, 
Above the vulgar joy divinely rais'd. 
Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm 
Of goodness irresistible, and all 
In sweet disorder lost — she blush'd consent. 
The news immediate to her mother brought, 
While, piere'd with anxious thought, she pin'd away 
The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate ; 
Amaz'd, and scarce believing what she heard, 
Joy seiz'd her wither'd veins, and one bright gleam 
Of setting life shone on her evening hours: 
Not less enraptur'd than the happy pair, 
Who flourjsh'd long in tender bliss, and rear'd 



LESSONS IN t^AR-i 

A numerous oifspring, lovely like themselves 

And good, the grace of all the country round. 

*^^ AM. — Celadon and Amdm. 
-YOUNG Celadon 



And his Amelia were a matchless pair, 
With equal virtu- fbrnrd, and equal grace ; 
The same distinguished by their sex alone : 
Hers, the. mild lustre of the blooming morn ! 
And his, the radiance of the rising day. 

They loved. But such their guiltless passion was, 
As in the dawn of time, inform'd the heart 
Of innocence and undisserabling truth. 
; Twas friendship, heightened by the mutual wish ; 
Tir enchanting hope, and sympathetic glow, 
Beam'd from the mutual eye. Devoting all 
To love, each was to each a dearer self; 
Supremely happy in til awaken'd power 
Of giving joy. Alone, amid the shades, 
Still in harmonious intercourse, they liv'd 
The rural day, and talk'd the flowing heart; 
Or siglrd and look'd — unutterable things. 

So pass'd their life, a clear united stream, 
By care unruffled, till, in evil hour, 
The tempest caught them on the tender walk, 
Heedless flow far and where its mazes stray 'd ; 
While, with each other bless'd, creative love 
Still bade eternal Eden smile around. 
Presaging instant fate, her bosom heav'd 
Unwonted sighs ; and stealing oft a look 
Tow'rds the big gloom, on Celadon he 5 * eya 
F ?U tearful, w rj ;ting her disorder'd cheek. 
In iln assuring love and confidence 
In beaven repress'd her fear; it grew, and shook 
Her frame near dissolution. He pereeiv'd 
Tn* unequal conflict ; and, as angels look 
On dying saints, his eyes compassion shed, 
With love illumin'd high. " Fear not," he saia^ 
" Sweet innocence ! thou stranger to offence 
And inward storm ! He who yon skies involves 
In frowns of darkness, ever smiles on thee, 
With kind regard. O'er thee the secret shaft, 
That wastes at midnight, or th' undreaded hour 
Of noon, flies harmless ; and that very voice 
Which thunders terror through the guilty heart, 
With tongues, of seraphs whispers peace to thine* 
'*JFis safety to be near thee, sure, and thus 
To clasp perfection !" From his void embrace, 
(Mysterious heaven !) that moment to the ground, 
A blacken' i corse was struck the beauteous maid.. 
But who can paint the lover as hr stood, 
Pierp.'d by severe amazement, bating life, 
Speechless, and fix'd in nil the death of w#» 



Sect. Vll.] READING. *$ 

XIL^Description o/Mab, Queen of the Fairies. 

SHE is the fancy's midwife ; and she cornea 
In shape no bigger than an agate stone, 
On the fore Snger of an Alderman; 
Drawn by a team of little atomies, 
Athwart men"? noses as they lie asleep ; 
Her wagon spokes, made of long spinner's legs : 
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ; 
The traces, of the smallest spider s web ; 
^he collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams ; 
Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash of film ; 
Her wagonner, a small gray-coated gnat ; 
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, 
Made by the joiner Squirrel, or old Grub, 
Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers. 

And in this state she gallops, night by night, 
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love ; 
O'er lawyer's fingers, who straight dream of fees ; 
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream ; 
And sometimes comes she with the tithe pig's tail, 
Tickling the parson as he lies asleep, 
Then dreams he of another benefice. 
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck ; 
And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats, 
Of breaches, ambuscades, Spanish blades ; 
Of healths five fathoms deep ; and then, anon, 
Drums in his ears : at which he starts and wakes; 
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, 
And sleeps again. 

VIII. - — On the Existence of a Deity. 

RETIRE — the world shut out— thy thoughts call home— 
fmagination's airy wing repress. 
Lock up thy senses. Let no passion stir. 
Wake all to reason. Let her reign alone. 
Then, in thy soul's deep silence, and the depth 
Of nature's silence, midnight, thus inquire, 
What am I ? and from whence ? I nothing know 
But that I am ; and since I am, conclude 
Something eternal. Had there e'er been nought, 
Nought still had been. Eternal there must be. 
But, what eternal ? Why not human race, 
And Adam's ancestors, without an end ? 
That's hard to be eonceiv'd, since every link 
Of that long chain'd succession is so frail ; 
Can every part depend, and not the whole J 
Yet, grant it true, new difficulties rise : 
I'm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore. 
Whence earth and these bright orbs ? Eternal tool 
Grant matter was eternal : still these orbs 
T 



218 LESSONS IN [Part 1. 

%Vculd want some other father. Much design 

Is seen in all their motions, all their makes. 

Design implies intelligence and art, 

That can't be from themselves — or man ; that art 

Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow : 

And nothing greater yet allow'd than man. 

Who, motion, foreign to the smallest grain, 

Shot through vast masses of enormous weight ? 

Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume 

Such various forms, and: gave it wings to fly ? 

Has matter innate motion ? Then each atom, 

Asserting its indisputable right 

To dance, would form an universe of dust. 

Has. matter none ? Then whence these glorious forms, 

And boundless flights, from shapeless and repos'd ? 

Has matter more than motion ? Has it thought, 

Judgment and genius '? Is it deeply learn'd 

In mathematics ? Has it framed such laws, 

Which, but to guess, a Newton made immortal ? 

If art to form, and council to conduct, 

And that with greater far than human skilly 

Resides not in each block — a Godhead reigns— 

And if a God there is — that God how great! 

IX. — Evening in Paradise described. Adam and Eve*$ 
Conversation and Evening Worship. 
NOW came still evening on, and twilight gray 
Had in her sober livery all things clad. 
Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
- They to their grassy couch, these to their nest 
Were sunk, all but the wakeful nightingale ; 
She all night long her amorous descant sung : 
Silence was pJeas'd. Now giow'd the firmament 
With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led 
The starry host, rode brightest ; till the moon, 
Rising in clouded majesty, at length, 
Apparent queen, unveifd her peerless light, 
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 

When Adam thus to Eve. Fair consort, th' hour 
Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest, 
Mind us of like repose ; since God hath set 
Labour and rest, as day and night to men, 
Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep 
Now falling, with soft slumb'rous weight inclines 
Our eyelids. Other creatures all day long 
Rove idle, unemploy'd, and less need rest : 
Man hath his daily work of body or mind 
Appointed, which declares his dignity, 
And the regard of Heaven on all his ways t 
While other animals inactive range, 
And of their doings God takes no account. 
To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east 



VII.] READING, 219 

With first approach of ligJht, we must be risen, 
And at our pleasant labour, to reform 
Yon flow'ry arbours, yonder alleys green, 
Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, 
That mock our scant manuring, and require 
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth 5 
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, 
That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsmooth, 
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease : 
Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest. 

To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorn'd ; 
My author and disposer ! what thou bid'st 
Unargu'd I obey ; so God ordains ; 
God is thy law ; thou mine j to know no more 
Is woman's happiest knowledge, and her praise, 
With thee conversing, I forget all time, 
All seasons and their change : all please alike. 
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
With charm of earliest birds : pleasant the sun, 
When first on this delightful land he spreads 
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, 
Glist'ning with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
After soft showers y and sweet the coming on 
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, 
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train : 
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun, 
On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower, 
Glist'ning with dew : nor fragrance after showers } 
Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night, 
With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon, 
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet. 

Thus, at their shady lodge arriv'd, both stood, 
Both turn'd ; and under open sky ador'd 
The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven 
Which they beheld : the moon's resplendent globe, 
And starry pole : Thou also macl'st the night, 
Maker omnipotent, and thou the day 
Which we, in our appointed work employ *d, 
Have finish'd ; happy in our mutual help 
And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss, 
Ordain'd by thee ; and this delicious place, 
For us too large ; where thy abundance wants 
Partakers, and uncropt, falls to the ground : 
But thou hast promis'd from us two, a race 
To fill the earth, who shall with us extol 
Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, 
And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. 



220 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

X. — Elegy 'written in a Country Churchyard. 

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day ;, 
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea ; 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds : 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping ow r l does to the moon complain 
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense breathing morn, 

The swallow, twiti'ring from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion or the echoing horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed, 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 

Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys and destiny obscure : 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await, alike, the inevitable hour ; 

The paths of glory lead — but to the grave. 

Nor you. ye proud, impute to these the fault, 

If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long drawn aisle and fretted vault^ 

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can story 'd urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps, in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire : 

Stands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
r wak'd to ecstasy the Jiving lyre : 



Sect, VII.] HEADING. .2*1 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page. 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unrol; 
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage^- 
And froze the genial current of the soul, 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; 
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, 
Their lot forbade ; nor circumscrib'd alone, 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd ; 
Forbade to wade v through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind : 
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame : % 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride, 
With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife-,. 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray — 
Along the coohsequester'd vale of life, 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,. 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deek'd, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse^ 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 

And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day ; 
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind ? 
On some fond breast the parting soul relies \ 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 
If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate 3 
T2 



£22 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 
Brushing with hasty steps, the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, 
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove ; 
Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree, 
Another came, nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 

The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 
Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne, 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 
'Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 
HEE-E rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere : 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send. 

He gave to mis'ry all he had — a tear ; 

He gain'd from heaven ('twas all he wish'd) — a frieni, 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they, alike, in trembling hope repose) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

XL — Scipio restoring the Captive Lady to her Lover. 

WHEN to his glorious first essay in war, 
New Carthage fell ; there all the flower of Spain 
Were kept in hostage ; a full field presenting 
For Scipio's generosity to shine.-— A noble virgin 
Conspicuous far o'er all the captive dames 
Was mark'd the general's prize. She wept and blush'd, 
Young, fresh, and blooming like the morn. An eye 
As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud 
Of purest white. A secret charm combin'd 
Her features, and infus'd enchantment through them. 
Her shape was harmony. But eloquence 
Beneath her beauty fails ; which seem'd on purpose 
By nature lavish'd on her, that mankind 
May see the virtue of a hero try'd 



Sect. VII.] READING. 223 

Almost beyond the stretch of human force. 

Soft as she pass'd along, with downcast eyes, 

Where gentle sorrow swell'd, and now and then, 

Dropp'd o'er her modest cheeks a trickling tear. 

The Roman legions languish'd, and hard war 

Felt more than pity ; e'en their chief himself, 

As on his high tribunal rais'd he sat, 

Turn'd from the dang'rous sight : and, chiding, ask'd 

His officers, if by this gift they meant 

To cloud his glory in its very dawn. 

She, question'd of her birth, in trembling accents, 
With tears and blushes, broken, told her tale. 
But, when he found her royally descended ; 
Of her old captive parents the sole joy ; 
And that a hapless Celtiberian prince, 
Her lover and belov'd, forgot nis chains, 
His lost dominions, and for her alone 
Wept out his tender soul : sudden the heart 
Of this young, conquering, loving, godlike Roman, 
Felt all the great divinity of virtue. 
His wishing youth stood check'd, his tempting power, 
Restrain'd by kind humanity. — At once, 
He for her parents and her lover call'd. 
The various scene imagine. How his troops 
Look'd dubious on, and wonder'd what he meant ; 
While, stretch'd below, the trembling suppliant lay 
Rack'd by a thousand mingling passions — fear, 
Hope, jealousy, disdain, submission, grief, 
Anxiety, and love, in every shape. 
To these as different sentiments succeeded, 
As mix'd emotions, when the man divine, 
Thus the dread silence to the lover broke. 
" We both are young — both charm'd. The right of war 
Has put thy beauteous mistress in my power ; 
With whom I could, in the most sacred ties, 
Live out a happy life. But, know that Romans, 
Their hearts, as well as enemies, can conquer ; 
Then, take her to thy soul ! and with her, take 
Thy liberty and kingdom. In return, 
I ask but this — When you behold these eyes, 
These charms, with transport, be a friend to Rome.'' 
Ecstatic wonder held the lovers mute ; 
While the loud camp, and all the clust'ring crowd 
That hung around, rang with repeated shouts j 
Fame took th' alarm, and through resounding Spain 
Blew fast the fair report ; which more than arms, 
Admiring nations to the Romans gain'd, 



224 LESSONS IN [Part L 

XII. — Pope's humorous Complaint to Dr. Arbuthnot, of the 
Impertinence of Scribblers. 

SHUT, shut the door, good John! — fatigu'd I said; 
Tie up the knocker — say, I'm sick, I'm dead. 
The dog-star rages ! Nay, 'tis past a doubt, 
All Bedlam, or Parnassus is let out. 
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 
They rave, recite, and madden round the land. 
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ? 
They pierce my thickets \ through my grot they glide. - 
By land, by water, they renew the charge ; 
They stop the chariot,, and they board the barge ', 
No place is sacred ; not the church is free ; 
E'en Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me. 
Then, from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme— 
" Happy to catch me just at dinner-time." 
Friend to my life' (which did not you prolong, 
The world had wanted many an idle song) 
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? 
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? 
A dire dilemma ! — either way I'm sped ; 
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead. 
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched 1 1 
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. 
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace ; 
And to be grave exceeds all power of face. 
I sit, with sad civility ; I read, 
With serious anguish and an aching head : 
Then drop at last, -but in unwilling ears, 
This saving counsel — '• Keep your piece nine years/' 
ii Nine years !" (cries he, who, high in Drurylane, 
Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, 
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, 
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends ;) 
" The piece yon think is incorrect. Why, take it j 
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it." 

Three things another's modest wishes bound — 
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. 
Pitholeon sends to me — " You know his Grace ; 
1 want a patron — ask him for a place." 
" Pitholeon libell'd me." — " But here's a letter 
Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better." 
" Bless me ! a packet ! — 'Tis a stranger sues 
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." 
If I dislike it — " Furies, death, and rage," 
If I approve — " Commend it to the stage." 
There, thank my stars, my whole commission ends ; 
The players and I are, luckily, no friends. 
Fir'd that the house reject him — " 'Sdeath I'll print it, 
And shame the fools — Your interest, Sir, witlTLintot.'* 



Sect, VlL] READING, 225 

** Lintot (dull rogue) will think your price too mtidtyu* 

" Not if you, Sir, revise it and retouch." 
All my demurs but double his attacks ; 
At last he whispers — ' : Do, and we go snaks ;" 
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clapt the door — 
" Sir, let me see you and your works no more." 
There are, who to my person pay their court : 
I cough like Horace, and though lean, am short : 
Amnion's great son one shoulder had too high ; 
Such Ovid's nose ; and, i; Sir you have an eye. ,J 
Go on, obliging creatures ; make me see, 
All that disgrac'd my betters met in me. 
Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, 
Just so immortal Maro held his head ; 
And when I die, besure you let me know, 
Great Homer died — three thousand years ago* 

XIII. — Hymn to Adversity. 

DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power ? 

Thou tamer of the human breast, 

Whose iron scourge and torturing hour, 

The bad affright, afflict the best ! 

Bound in thy adamantine chain, 

The proud are taught to taste of pain; 

And purple tyrants vainly groan, 
With pangs unfclt before, unpitied and alone. 
When f^rst thy sire to send on earth 

Virtue, his darling child, de-ign'd. 

To thee he gave the heai enly birth, 

And bade thee form her infant mind* 

Stern, rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 

With patience many a year she bore ; 

What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, 
And from her own she learn 'd to melt at others' WO, 
Scar'd at thy frown, terrific, fiy 

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, 

Wild Laughter, Noise and thoughtless Joy, 

And leave us leisure to be good. 

Light they disperse, and with them go 

The Summer Friend, the hatt'ring Foe, 

By vain Prosperity recc-iv'd, 
To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd. 
Wisdom, in sable garb array 'd 

Immers'd in rapturous thought profound, 

And Melancholy, silent maid, 

With leaden eye, that loves the ground, 

Still on thy solemn steps attend : 

Warm Charity, the general friend ; 

With Justice, to herself severe ; 
And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 



S2ff LESSONS IN [Part I. 

Oh ! gently on thy suppliant's head, 
Dread Goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand! 
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 
Nor circled with the vengeful band, 
(As by the impious thou art seen) 
With thund'ring voice and threat'ning mien, 
With screaming Horror's funeral cry, 
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. 

Thy form benign, Oh, Goddess I wear ', 
Thy milder influence impart ; 
Thy philosophic train be there, 
To soften, not to wound my heart. 
Thy gen'rous spark, extinct, revive ; 
Teach me to love and to forgive : 
Exact my own defects to scan ; 
What others are, to feel \ and know myself a man. 

<* XIV.— The Passions.— An Ode. 

WHEN Music, heavenly maid ! was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
Throng'd around her magic cell ; 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting- 
By turns, they felt the glowing mind 
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, renn'd : 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, 
Fill'd with fury, rapt, mspir'd, 
From the supporting myrtles round, 
They snateh'd her instruments of sound; 
And, as they oft had heard apart, 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each, (for madness rul'd the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, 

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid ; 
And back recoil'd, he know not why, 

E'en at the sound himself had made, 
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, 

In lightnings own'd his secret stings, 
In one rude cltish he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurry'd hand the strings,. 
With woful measures, wan Despair 

Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd : 
A sol^nn-, strange^ and mingled air: 

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 
Bat thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, 

What was thy delighted measure! 

Still ir. whisper'd promis'd pleasure, 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. 



Sect. VII.} READING. «*? 

Still would lier touch the strain prolong ; 

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
She call'd on Echo still through ail her song : 

And where her sweetest theme she chose, 

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 
Ajad Hope, enchanted, smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair : 

And longer had she sung— but, with a frown, 
Revenge impatient rose. 

He threw his hlood-stain'd sword in thunder down.; 
And, w T ith a withering look, 
The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full ofwo; 

And, ever and anon, he beat 

The doubling drum with furious heat : 
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between. 

Dejected Pity at his side, 

Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, 
While each strain'd ball of sight-r-seenvd bursting from his head, 
Thy numbers, Jealousy. 10 nought were fix'd ; 

Sad proof of thy distressful state : 
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd : 

And, now it courted Love ; now. raving, call'd on Hate, 

With eyes uprais'd, as one inspir'd, 

Pale Melancholy sat retir'd ; 

And, from her wild sequester'd seat, 

In notes, by distance made more sWeet, 
Pour*d through the mellow horn her pensive soul, 

And dashing soft from rocks around, 

Bubbling runnels- join r d the sound; 
Through glades and glooms, the mingled measure stole, 
Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, 

(Round an holy calm diffusing, 

Love of peace, and lonely musing) 
In hollow murmurs died away. 
But, Oh, how aiter'd was it sprightlier tone ! 
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 

Her bow across her shoulder flung, 

Her buskins gemm'd with morning d?w, 
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, 
The hunters call, to Faun and Dryad known ; 
The oak crown'd Sisters, and their chaste ey'd Queen. 
Satyrs and sylvan Boys were seen, 
Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
Brown Exsicise rejoie'd to hear; 

And Sport leap'd up and seiz'd his beechen spear* 

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial, 

He with viny crown advancing, 
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd — 
Hut soon he saw the brisk awakening viol; 



228 LESSONS IN [Part J. 

Whose sweet entrancing voice he lovd the best. 
T: - i !:■ have vho heard the ^'rain, 

They saw in Fein]? aiaids, . 

Amidst the festal-sounding shades, 
To some unwearied minstrel lancing^ 
While as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
Love fram'd with Mirth a grty fantastic round, 
(Loose were her Presses seen, her zone unbound) 
And he. amidst his frolic pfay. 
As if he would the charming air repay, 
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. 



SECTION VIII. 

— Milton's Lamentation for the Loss of his Sight 

HAIL, holy light ! offspring of heaven first born ! 
Or of th Eternal, co^eternal beam ! 
May I express thee unbalm'd ? since God is light, 
And never, but in unapproached light 
Dwelt from eternity — dwelt then in thee, 
Bright effluence of bright essence increate. 
Or hear'st thou ra her, pure ethereal stream, 
Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun, 
Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice 
Of God, as with a mantle didst, invest 
The rising world of waters dark and deep, 
Won from the void and formless infinite. 
Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, 
Escap'd the Stygian pool, though long detain'd 
In that obscure sojourn ; while in my flight, 
Through utter, and through middle darkness borne, 
With other notes, than to the Orphean lyre, 
I sung of Chaos and eternal Night ; 
Taught by the heavenly muse to venture down 
The dark descent, and up to re-ascend, 
Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe, 
And feel thy sovereign vital lamp — but thou 
Revisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain 
To vnd thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 
So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs, 
Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more 
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt, 
Jiear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 
Smit with love of sacred song — but chief 
Th^e. Zion, and the flowery brooks beneath, 
That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow, 
Nightly I visit— nor sometimes forget 
Those other two equall'd with me in fate, 



Sect. VIII] RE A 1)1X0. 229 

So were I e<gn$l]'d with them in renown, 

Bliiiu Tliamyris, and blind Maeonides ; 

j^nd Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old : 

Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 

Harmonious numbers — as the wakeful bird 

Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid, 

Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus, with the year, 

Seasons return — but not to me returns 

Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 

Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 

But cloud instead, and ever-during dark 

Surround me, from the cheerful ways of men 

Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair, 

Presented with an universal blank. 

Of nature's works, to me expung'd and razd, 

And wisdom, at one entrance, quite shut out. 

So much the rather, thou, celestial light, 

Shine inward, and the mind, through all her powers, 

Irradiate j there plant eyes ; all mist from thence, 

Purge and disperse ; that I may see and tell 

Of things invisible to mortal sight. 

IT. — V Allegro, or the Merry Man. 

HENCE, loathed Melancholy ! 
Of Cerberus and blackest, midnight born, 

In Stygian cave forlorn. 
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ; .- 

Find at some uncouth cell, 
Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings, 

An 3 the ni^ht-rayen sings ; 
There under ebon shades, and low brow'd rocks. 

As ragged as thy locks, 
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 

But come, thou goddess fair and free, 

In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne ! 

And, by men, heart-easing Mirth, 

Whom lovely Venus at a birth, 

With two sister-graces more, 

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore. 

Hast thee, nymph, and bring with thes 

Jest and youthful Jollity^ 

Quips, a-:d cranks, and wanton wiles, 

Nods and becks, and wreathed smiles; 
4 Sue'- as hang on Hebe's --.leek, 

And love to live in dh iple sleek; 

Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, 

And laughter holding, both iiis sides. 

C:>me ! and trip it as you go 

On the Ught fantastic toe ; 

And in thy right hand lead with thee, 

The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty-— 



ISO LESSONS IN [Part I 

And if I give thee honour due, 
Mirth nd?i)it me of thy crew. 
To Jive with her, and live with thee. 
In mireproved pleasures free : 
To hear the lark begin its flight. 
And, singing, startle the dull Night, 
From his watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid good -morrow, 
Through the sweetbriar or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine ; 
While the cock, with lively din, 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
And to the stack, or the barn door 
Stoutly struts his dames before ; 
Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn, 
Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn, 
From the side of some hoar hill, 
Through the high wood echoing shriU : 
Sometime walking, not unseen, . 
By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green, 
Right against the eastern gate* 
Where the great sun begins his state, 
Rob'd in flames and amber light, 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight, 
While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
And the mower wets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures^ 
Whilst the landskip round it-measures ; 
Russet lawns and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
Mountains on whose barren breast 
The lab'ring clouds do often rest ; 
Meadows trim, with daisies pied ; 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Eosom'd high in tufted trees, 
Where, perhaps, some beauty lies> 
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 
Hard by a cottage chimney smokes, 
From -betwixt two aged oaks, 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, 
Are at their savoury dinner set, 
Of herbs and other country messes, 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 
And then, in haste, her bower she leave% 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 



VIII ] BEADING. 231 

Or. iftlie earlier season lead, 

To tho tauji'd li ay cock i 1 1 tjic mead. 

Towered cities please us then, 
And the busy hum of men, 
Where til ^ al1 ^ batons bold. 

In w tpli ii >!d ; 

Wj i jght ^}os 

Of wit or arms 1 ; whil tiletid 

I. o ir-Jii uer gn< j ail commend. 

There lei II ym 

b-iaj er clear, 
And pomp, and feast, \ nd re^ eiry, 
With mask, and aiitiq ic pageantry; 
Sacli eights as youthful poets dream, 
On summer eves, by haunted stream. 
Tjben to the well-trod stage anon, 
If Johnson's learned sock be on. 
Or swec-est Shakespeare, Fancy's chile, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever, against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Ly.dlan airs, 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting sou) may pierce, 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out. 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 
The melting voice through mazes running* 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of Harmony : 
That Orpheus, self may heave his head 
From golden slumber, on a bed 
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Git Pluto, to have quite set free, 
j His half-regained Eurydice. 

These delights, if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

III. — On the Pursuits of Mankind. 

HONOUR and shame from no condition rise j 
Act well your part — there all the honour lies. 
Fortune in men has some small difference made, 
One flaunts in rags— one flutters in brocade * 
The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gowrfd ; 
The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. 
i: What differ more," you cry, " than crown and cowl-" 
I'll tell you friend — a wise man and a fool. 
You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, 
Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk ; 
"Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow ; 
The rest is all but leather or prunello. 



232 LESSONS IN [Part J. 

Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race, 
In quiet flow from Lucrece. to Lucrece : 
But by your father's worth if yours you rate, 
Count me those only who were good and great. 
Go ! if your ancient, but ignoble blood 
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood : 
Go ! and pretend your family is young, 
Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. 
What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ? 
Alas ! not ali the blood of all the Howards. 
Look next on greatness — say where greatness lies* 
" Where, but among the heroes and the wise ?" 
Keroes are much the same, the point's agreed, 
From Macedonia's madman to the Swede : 
The whole strange purpose of their lives to find, 
Or make an enemy of ail mankind ! 
Not one looks backward ; onward still he goes ; 
Yet ne'er looks forward, farther than his nose. 
No less alike the politic and wise ; 
All sly slow things with circumspective eyes. 
Men in their loose, unguarded hours they take, 
Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. 
But grant that those can conquer j these can cheat ; 
'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great. 
Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, 
Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. 
Who noble ends by noble means obtains, 
Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains ; 
Like good. Aurelius let him reign, or bleed 
Like Socrates — that man is great indeed. 

What's fame ? a fancy'd life in others' breath, 
A thing beyond us, e'en before our death. 
All fame is foreign, but of true desert, 
Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart ) 
One self-approving hour whole years outweighs 
Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas : 
And more true joy, Mareellus exil'd, feels, 
Than Caesar, with a Senate at his heels. 

In parts superior what advantage lies ? 
Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise? 
'Tis but to know how little can be known ; 
To see all others' faults, and feel our own ; 
Condemn'd in business or in arts to drudge, 
Without a second, or without a judge. 
Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land? 
All fear, none aid you, and few understand. 
Painful pre-eminence ! yourself to view 
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too. 

Bring then these blessings to a strict account ; 
Make fair deductions, see to what they 'mount ; 
How much, of other, each is sure to cost : 
How each, for other, oft is wholly lost ; 



VIII.] RESIDING. 233 

How inconsistent greater goods with these j 

How sometimes life is risk'd, and always ease : 

Think. And. if still such things thy envy call, 

Say, would'st thou be the man to whom they fall ? 

To sigh for ribands, if thou art so silly, 

Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy. 

Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life ? 

Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife. 

If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin'd ; 

The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind. 

Or ravish'd with the whistling of a name, 

See Cromwell damn'd to everlasting fame, 

If all, united, thy ambition call, 

From ancient story, learn to scorn them all, 

IV. — Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn. 

THESE are thy glorious works ! Parent of good I ■ 
Almighty ! thine this universal frame, 
Thus wondrous fair: Thyself how wondrous, then, 
Unspeakable ! who sitt'st above these heavens, 
To us invisible, or dimly seen 
In these thy low T est works ; yet these declare 
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine, 
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light. 
Angels ! for ye behold them, and with songs 
And choral symphonies, day without night, 
Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye in heaven ! 
On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol 
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. 
Fairest of stars ! last in the train of night, 
If better thou belong not to the dawn. 
Sure pledge of day. that crown's! the smiling morn 
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
Thou Sun ! of this great world both eye and soul, 
Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise 
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
And when high neon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st. 
Moon ! that now meet'st the orient sun, now fiyigt ? 
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies ; 
And ye five other wand'ring fires ! that move 
In mystic dance, not without song ; resound 
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light, 
Air, and ye elements ! the eldest birth 
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix 
And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change 
Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
Ye mists and exhalations ! that now rise, 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 
111 honour to the world's great Author rise j 
V2 



234 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky, 
Or wet the thirsty earth with failing showers, 

Rising or Hilling, still advance his praise. 

His praise, ye winds ! that from four quarters blow, 

Breathe soft or loud. ; and wave your tops, ye pines 

With every plant, in sign of worship, wave. 

Fountains ! and ye that warble, as ye flow, 

Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise. 

Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye birds, 

That, singing, up to heaven's gate ascend, 

Bear on your wings, and in your notes his praise. 

Ye that in wafers glide, and ye that walk 

The earth, and stately tread or Iow'y creep ! 

Witness if 1 be silent, morn or even, 

To hill or valley, fountain or flesh shade, 

Blade vocal by my dong, and taught his praise.- — 

Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still, 

To give us only good ; and, if the night 

Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd — 

Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.. 

V. — Parting of Hector and Andromache. 

HECTOR now pass'd, with sad presaging heart, 
To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part. 
At home he sought her ; but he sought in vain ; 
She, with one maid, of all her menial train, 
Had thence retir'd ; and with her second joy, 
The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy. 
Pensive she stood on Ilion's towery height, 
Beheld the war, and sicken'd at the sight : 
There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore, 
Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore. 

Hector, this heard, return'd without delay ; 
Swift through the town he took his former way, 
Through streets of palaces, and walks of state, 
And met the mourner at the Scoean gate. 
With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair, 
His blameless wife, Aetion's wealthy heir. 

The nurse stood near; in whose embraces press'd, 
His only hope hung, smiling at her breast; 
Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn, 
Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn. 
Silent, the warrior smil'd ; and pleas'd, resign'd 
To tender passions, all his mighty mind. 
His beauteous princess cast a mournful look, 
Hung on his hand, and then, dejected, spoke. 
Her bosom labour'd with a boding sigh, 
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye. 

" Too daring prince ! ah ! whither wilt thou run £ 
Ah ! too forgetful of thy wife and son ! 
And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be i 
A widow I, a helpless orphan he ! 



Sect. VIII.] READING. 235 

For sure, such courage length of life denies ; 
And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice. 
Greece in her single heroes strove in vain ; 
Now hosts oppose thee — aud thou must be slain, 
Oh, grant me, gods ! ere Hectof meets his doom, 
AH I can ask of heaven — an early tomb! 
So shall my days in one sad tenor run, 
And end with sorrows, as they first begun. 
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger ::are ; 
Oh ! prove a husband's, and a parent's care. 
That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy, 
Where yon wild fig-tree joins the wall of Troy : 
Thrice our bold foes the tierce attack have given ; 
Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven. 
Let others in the field their arms employ ; 
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy." 

The chief replied — " That post shall be my care; 
Nor that alone, but all the works of war. 
How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd, 
And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the grcund 
Attaint the lustre of my former name, 
Should Hector basely quit the field of fame ! 
My early youth was bred to warlike pains; 
My soul impels me to the martial plains. 
Still foremost let me stand to guard the throne, 
To save my father's honours and my own. 
Yet, come it will ! the day decreed by fates ! 
(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates !) 
The day when thou, imperial Troy, must bend, 
Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end, 
And yet, no dire presage so wounds my mind, 
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, 
Not Priam's hoary hairs, defiled with gore, 
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore, 
As thine, Andromache ! Thy griefs I dread I 
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led, 
In Argive looms our battles to design, 
And woes, of which so large a part wa3 thine. 
There, while you groan beneath the load of life, 
They cry — ;; Behold the mighty Hector's wife !" 
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, 
Embitters all thy woes by naming me. 
The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, 
A thousand griefs shall waken at the name ! 
May I lie cold before that dreadful day, 
Pressed with a load of monumental clay ! 
Thy Hector wrapp'd in everlasting sleep, 
Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep." 

Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy 
Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. 
The babe clung, crying, to the nurse's breast, 
Scar'd with the dazzling helm^ and nodding crest. 



LESSONS IN [Part I, 

With secret pleasure, each fond parent sinil'd, 
And Hector hasted to relieve his child: 
The glitt'ring terrors from his brows unbound, 
And plac'd the beaming helmet on the ground. 
Then kiss'd the child ; and, lifting high in air, 
Thus to the gods preferr'd a parent's prayer. 

" Oh thou, whose glory fills the ethereal throne I 
And all ye deathless powers ! protect my son! 
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, 
To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown ; 
Against his country's foes the war to wage, 
And rise the Hector of the future age. 
So when triumphant from successful toils, 
Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, 
Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, 
And say, " This chief transcends his father's fame j** 
While, pleas'd amidst the general shouts of Troy, 
His mother's conscious heart o'erSows with joy." 

He spoke ; and, fondly gazing on her charms* 
Restor'd the pleasing burden to her arms. 
Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, 
Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey'd : 
The troubled pleasure, soon chastis'd with fear, 
She mingled with the smile, a tender tear. 
The soften'd chief with kind compassion view'd, 
And dry'd the falling drops ; and thus pursu'd— 

" Andromache ! my soul's far better part ! 
Why with untimely sorrow heaves thy heart ? 
No hostile hand can antedate my doom, 
Till fate condemn me to the silent tomb : 
Fix'd is the term of all the race of earth; 
And such the hard condition of our birth. 
No force can then resist, no flight can save ; 
All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. 
No more — but hasten to thy tasks at home ; 
There guide the spindle, and direct the loom. 
Me, glory summons to the martial scene ; 
The field of combat is the sphere for men : 
Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, 
The first in danger, as the first in fame." 

Thus having said, th' undaunted chief resumes 
His towery helmet, black with shading plumes. 
His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, 
Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, 
That stream'd at every look ; then moving slow, 
Sought her own palace, and indulg'd her wo. 
There, while her tears deplor'd the godlike-man, 
Through all her train the soft infection ran : 
The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, 
And mourned the living Hector as thedead= 



Sect. VIII.] READING. 237 

VI. — Facetious History of John Gil fin, 

JOHN GILPIN was a citizen 

Of credit and renown ; 
A train band captain eke was he, 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear — « 

" Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedious years, yet we 

No holiday have seen. 

To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we shall .then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton, 

All in a chaise and pair. 
Mv sister and my sister's child, 

"Myself and children three, 
Will fill the chaise, so you must ride 

On horseback after we,"' 

He soon reply'd — ' ; I do admire 

Of woman kind but one ; 
And you are she, my dearest dear, 
Therefore it shall be done. 

I am a linen-draper bold, 

As all the world doth know ; 
And my good friend, Tom Callender,' 

Will lend his horse to go." 
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin — ;i That's well said y 

And, for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnish 'd with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear." 
John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 

O'erjoy'd was he to find, 
That though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allow'd 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors' off the chaise was stay'd, 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls ; and all agog, 

To dash through thick and thin ! 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 

Were never folks so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 
John Gilpin at his horse's side, 

Seiz'd fast the flowing mane, 



LESSONS IN [Part I. 

And up lie got in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again. 
For saddletree scarce rcach'd Lad he. 

His journey to begin, 
When turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers eonie in. 
So down he came, for loss of time, 

Although" it fcriev'd him sore, 



mews 



"lav 



iA 



When Betty seream'd into his. ears-— 
" The wine is left behind." 

li Good lack !" quoth he, " yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise. 
In which I wear my trusty sword, 

When I do exercise.'' 
Now Mrs. Gilpin, careful soul. 

Had two stone bottles found, 
To held the liquor that she lov'cJ, 

And keep It safe and sound. 
Each bottle had a curling ear, 

Through which the belt he drew; 
He hung a bottle on each side 

To make his balance true. 
Then over all, that he might be 

Equipp'd from top to toe, 
His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, 

He manfully did throw. 
Now see him mounted once again, 

Upon his nimble steed ; 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With caution and good heed. 
But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well-shod feet, 
The snorting beast began to tret, 

Which galhd him in his seat. 
" So, fair and sofrly," John he cried ; 

But John he cried in vain ; 
The trot became a gallop soon, 

In spite of curb and rein. 
So stooping down, as needs lie must, 

Who cannot sit upright ; 
He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, 

And eke with all his might. 
Away w r ent Gilpin, neck or nought } 
. Away went hat and w r ig ; 



Sect. Till.] READING?. 232 

He little dreamt, when he set out, 
Ox' running bucli a rig, 

His horse, who never had before 

Been handled in this kind, 
Affrighted fled ; and as he flew, 

Leit all the world behind. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 

Like streamer long and gay ; 
Till loop and button failing both, 

At last it flew away, 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung : 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children seream'd 

Up flew the windows all ; 
^\nd every soul cried out, " Well done I" 

As loud as they could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but he ! 

His fame soon spread around— 
41 He carries weight ! he rides a race ! b ' 

'Tis for a thousand pound." 

And still, as fast as he drew near 

'Twas wonderful to view, 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low, 
The bottles twain behind his back, 

Were shatter d at a blow, 
Down ran the wine into the road, 

Most piteous to be seen, 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke ? 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seem'd to carry weight, 

With leather girdle brae'd ; 
For all might see the bottle necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 
Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
And till he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay. 

And there he threw the Wash about, 

On both sides of the way ; 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 
At Edmonton, his loving wife, 

From the balcony, spied 



■4* LESSONS IN [Part I. 

Her tender husband, wend ring much 
To see how he did ride. 

§l Stop, stop. John Gilpin ! here's the house V 

They all at c-nee did cry ; 
" The dinner waits, and we are tir'd !" 

Said Gilpin— " So sm I V' 
But, yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclin'd to tarry there ; 
For why ? — His owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware.- 
So like an arrow swift he flew, 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
Bo did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 
Away went Gilpin, out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 
Till at his friend's, Tom Callender's, 

His horse at last stood stiih 
Torn Callender, surpris'd to see 

His friend in such a trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : — 

" What news? What news? Your tidings tell 

Make haste and tell me all ! 
Say, why bare-headed are you come ? 

Or why you come at all ?" 
Now Gilpin hnd a peasant wit, 

And lov'd a timely jo] e ; 
And thus unto Tom Callender, 

In merry strains he spoke : — 

" I came because your horse would come ; 

And if I w 7 ell forebode. 
My hat and wig will soon be here; 

They are upon the road." 

Tom Callender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin, 
Return'd him not a single word, 

But to the house went in : 
Whence str« ight re came with hat and wig 

A wig that flow'd behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear; 

Each comely in its kind. 
He held them up ; and, in his turn, 

Thus show'd his ready wit — 
w My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 
But lei me rrape the dirt away 

That hangs upon your face ; 



Ject. VIII j READING. 241 

And stop and eat—for well you may 

Be in a hungry case ! : ' 
Said John—" It is my wedding day ; 

And folks would gape and stare, 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware 1" 
80 turning td his horse, he said, 

" I am in haste to dine ; 
*Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine. ; ' 
Ah ! luckless speech, and bootless boast ? 

For which he paid full dear ; 
For, while he spake, a braying ass ; 

Did sing most loud and efear : 

Whereat his horse did snort, as if 

He heard a lion roar ; J 

And galiop'd off with all his might, £|g « 

As he had done before. ? 

Away went Gilpin, and away -.-, 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig ; * 

He lost them sooner than at first ; 

Fur why ? — They were to big. 

ZN T ow Gilpin's wife, when she had seen 

Her husband posting down 
Inio the country, far away, 

She pull'd out half a crown : 

And thus unto the youth she said 

That drove them to the Bell, 
- ; This shall be yours, when you bring back 

My husband safe and well." 
The youth did ride, and soon they met ; 

He tried to stop John's horse 
By seizing fast the flowing rein ; 

But only made things worse : » 

For not performing what he meant, 

And gladly weald have done, ■ . / - 

He thereby frighted Gilpin's, horse, 

And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin— and away 

Went postboy at his heels ; i 

The postboy's horse right glad to miss, 
The lumb'ring of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road, 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
.With postboy scamp'ring in the rear, 

They rais'd the hue and cry. 

"Stop thief! stop thief! a ''gViwaymanl" 
Not one of them was mute 1 
X 



*«* LESSONS IN [Part]. 

So they, and all that pass'd that way, 
Soon join'd in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike-gates again 

Flew open in short space ; 
The tollman thinking, as before, 

That Gilpin rode a race : 
And so lie did, arid won it too ; 

For he got first to town : 
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up, 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing — " Long live the king; 

And Gilpin long live he : 
And when he next doth ride. abroad, 

May I be there to see !" 

XII— The Creation of the World. 

***** MEANWHILE the Son 
On his great expedition now appear'd, 
Girt with omnipotence, with radiance crown'd, 
Of majesty divine ; sapience and love 
Immense, and all his Father in him shone 
About his chariot numberless were pour'd 
Cherub and seraph, potentates and thrones, 
And virtues ; wing'd spirits and chariot's wing'd 
From the armoury of God ; where stand of old 
Myriads, between two brazen mountains lodgd 
Against a solemn day, harness'd at hand. 
Celestial equipage ! and now came forth 
Spontaneous, for within them spirit livd, 
Attendant en their Lord ; heaven open'd wide 
Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound! 
On golden hinges moving, to let forth 
The King of Glory, in his powerful Word 
And Spirit coming to create new worlds. 
On heavenly ground they stood, and from the shore 
They view'd the vast immeasurable abyss, 
Outrageous as a sea : dark, wasteful, wild ; 
Up from the bottom turn'd by furious winds, 
And surging waves, as mountains to assault 
Heaven's height, and with the centre mix the pole. 

Silence, ye troubled waves ! and thou deep, peace t 
Said then the omnific Word, your discord end : 
Nor stay'd ; but on the wings of Cherubim 
Uplifted, in paternal glory rode 
Far into Chaos, and the world unborn ; 
For Chaos heard his voice ; him all his train 
Follow'd in bright procession to behold 
Creation, and the wonders of his might. 
Then stay'd the fervid wheels, and in his hand 
He took the golden compasses, prepar'd 
In God\? eternal store, to circumscribe 



Sect. VIII.] • READING. 2.43 

This universe, and ail created tilings* 
One foot he.^enter'd, and the other turn'd 
Round through the vast profundity obscure, 
And said, thus iar extend, thus far thy bounds^ 
This be thy just circumference, O world ! 

Thus God the heaven created, thus the earth, 
Matter unform'd and void ! Darkness profound 
Cover'd th' abyss ; but on the watery calm 
His brooding wings the spirit of God outspread, 
And vital virtue infus'd, and vital warmth 
Throughout the fluid mass ; but downward purg'c^ 
The black, tartareous, cold, infernal dregs, 
Adverse to life ; then founded, then conglob'd 
Like things to light, the rest to several place 
Disparted ; and between, spun out the air ; 
And earth, self-balanced, on her centre hung,, 

VIII.— Overthrow of the Rebel Angels, 
SO spake the Son, and into terror chang'd 
His countenance, too severe to be beheld, 
And full of wrath bent on his enemies. 
At once the four spread out their starry wings ? 
With dreadful shape contiguous, and the orbs 
Of his fierce chariot roil'd, as with the sound 
Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host. 
He on his impious foes, right onward drove, 
Gloomy as night. Under his burning wheels 
The steadfast empirean shook throughout, 
AH but the throne itself of God. Full soon 
Among them he arriv'd ; in Ids right hand 
Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent 
Before him, such as in their souls infixed 
Plagues. They, astonished, all resistance lost, 
All courage ; down their idle weapons dropp'd : 
O'er shields, and helms, and helmed heads he rode, 
Of thrones and mighty seraphim prostrate, 
That wish'd the mountains, now, might be a^ain 
Thrown on them as a shelter from his ire. 
Nor less on either side, tempestuous fell 
Kis arrows, from the fourfold visag'd four 
Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheels 
Distinct alike with multitude of eyes : 
One spirit in them ral'd ; ond every eye 
Glard lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire 
Among th' accurs'd, that wither'd all their strength; 
And, of their wonted vigour, left them clrain'd, 
Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fail'n. 
Yet half his strength he put not forth ; but clieck'd 
His thunder in mid-volley ; for he meant 
Not to destroy, but to root theni'out of heaven. 
The overthrown he rais'd ; and as a herd 
Of goats or timorous flock together throng'd, 



244 LESSONS IN L [Part I. 

Drove them before him thunderstruck, pursu'd 
With terrors and with furies, to the bounds 
And crystal wall of heaven : which, opening wide, 
RolI'd inward, bind a spacious gap disclos'd 
Into the wasteful deep. The monstrous sight 
Struck them with horror backward ; but far worse 
' Urg'd them behind. Headlong themselves they threw 
Down from the verge of heaven ; eternal wrath 
Burnt after them to the bottomless pit. 

IX, — Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music— An Ode 
for St. Cecilia's Vay. 

'TWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son. — • 
Aloft in awful state, 
The godlike hero sat 
On his imperial throne. 

His valiant peers were plac'd around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound; 

So should desert in arms be crown'd. 
The lovely Thais by his side, ; 
Sat like a blooming eastern bride, 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. — 

Happy, happy, happy pair ! 

None but the brave, 

None but the brave, 
None but the brave, deserve the fair. 
Tiraotheus plac'd on high. 

Amid the tuneful choir, 

With rlying fingers touch'd the lyre : 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, ' 

And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above ; 
(Such is the power of mighty love !) 
A dragon's fiery form beiy'd the god ; 
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode. 

When he to fair Olympia press'd, 
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 

The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound ; 
A present deity, they shout around ; 
A present deity ; the vaulted roofs rebound. 

With ravish'cl ears the monarch hears, 

Assumes the god, affects to nod, 
And seems to shake the spheres. 
The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung ; 
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young. 

The jolly god in triumph comes ! 

Sound the trumpet ; beat the drums ; 

Flush'd with a purple grace, 

He shows his honest face; 



dtxT. VIII.] READING. 245 

Now give the hautboys breath — He comes! he comes, 3 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
Drinking joys did first ordain : 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
Rich the treasure ; 
Sweet the pleasure ; 
Sweet is pleasure, after pain. 
Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain ; 
Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thiace he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise ; 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And while he heaven and earth defy'd, 
Chang'd his hand and check'd his pride. 
He chose a mournful muse, 
Soft pity to infuse : 
He sung Darius, great, and good. 
By too severe a fate, 
Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, 
Fall'n, from his high estate, " b 

And welt'ring in his blood : 
Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed, ' 
On the bare earth expcs'd he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes. — 

With downcast look the joyless victor sat ; 
Revolving, in his alter'd soul, 

The various turns of fate below ; 
And now and then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 
The mighty master smil'd to see 
That love was in the next degree : 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move ; 
For pity melts the mind to love. 

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures^ 
War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
Honour but an empty bubble ; 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying. 

If the world be worth thy winning, 
Think, oh, think it worth enjoying ! 
Lovely Thais site beside thee : 
Take the good the gods provide thee ; 
The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
So love was crown'd ; but music won the cause.- 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gaz'd on the fair, 
Who caus'd his care ; 
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd; 
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again ; 
X2 



246 LESSONS, &c. [Part I 

At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, 
The vanquish'd victor — sunk upon her breast. 
Now, strike the golden lyre again ; 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ; 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark ! hark ! — the horrid sound 
Has rais'd up his head, 
As awak'd from -the dead ; 
And, amaz'd, he stares around. 
Revenge, revenge ! Timotheus cries- 
See the furies arise ! 

See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! 
Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
And unbury'd, remain 
Inglorious on the plain. 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold ! how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes, 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! 
The princes applaud, with a furious joy ; 
And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy : 
Thais led the way, 
To light him to his prey ; 
And. like another Helen — nYd another Troy. 
Thus, long ago, 

Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, 
While organs yet were mute ; 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre, 
Gould swell the soul to rage — or kindle soft desire. 
At last, divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame. 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 

He rais'd a mortal to the skies ; 

She drew an angel down. 



PART II. 

LESSONS IN SPEAKING. 



SECTION I. 
ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 

I. — On Truth and integrity. 

TRUTH and integrity have all the advantages of ap* 
pearance, and many more. If the snow of any thing be 
good for any thing, I am sure the reality is better; for 
why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he i? 
not, but because he thinks it good to have the qualities he 
pretends to? for, to counterfeit and dissemble, is to put on 
the appearance of some real excellency. Now, the best 
way for a man to seem to be any thing, is really to be what 
he would seem to be. Besides, it is often as troublesome 
to support the pretence of a good quality, as to have it ; 
and if a man have it not, it is most likely he will be disco- 
vered to want it^ and then all his labour to seem to have it 
is lost. There is something unnatural in painting, which 
a skilful eye will easily discern from native beauty and 
complexion. 

It is hard to personate and act a part long; for, where 
truth is not at the bottom, nature will always be endeavour- 
ing to return, and will betray herself at one time or other. 
Therefore, if any man think it convenient to seem good, 
let him be so indeed ; and then his goodness will appear to 
every one's satisfaction : for truth is convincing, and car- 
ries its own light and evidence along with it : and will not 
only commend us to every man's conscience, but which is 
much more, to God, who searcheth our hearts. So that, 
upon all accounts, sincerity is true wisdom. Particularly 
as to the affairs of this world, integrity hath many advanta- 
ges over all the artificial modes of dissimulation and deceit, 
It is much the plainer and easier, much the safer and more 
secure way of dealing in the world ; it hath less of trou- 
ble and difficulty, of entanglement and perplexity, of dan- 
ger and hazard in it ; it is the shortest and nearest way to 
our end, earning us thither in a straight line ; and will hold 
cut 5 and last longest. The arts of deceit and cunning con- 



248 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

tinually grow weaker and less effectual and serviceable to 
those that practise them : whereas integrity gains strength 
by use ; and the more and longer any man practiseth it, 
the greater service it does him, by confirming his reputa- 
tion, and encouraging those with whom he hath to do, to 
repose the greatest confidence in him ; which is an unspeak- 
able advantage in business and the affairs of life. 

A dissembler must be always upon his guard, and watch 
himself carefully that he do not contradict his own preten- 
sions ; for he acts an unnatural part, and therefore must 
put a continual force and restraint upon himself; whereas, 
he that acts sincerely, hath the easiest task in the world ; 
because he follows nature, and so is put to no trouble and 
care about his words and actions ; he needs not invent any 
pretence beforehand, nor make excuses afterwards for any 
thing he hath said or done. 

But insincerity is very troublesome to manage. A hy- 
pocrite hath so many things to attend to, as make his life 
a very perplexed and intricate thing. A liar hath need of 
a good memoiy, lest he contradict at one time what he said 
at another. But truth is always consistent with itself, and 
needs nothing to help it out ; it is always near at hand, and 
cits upon our lips, and is read} r to drop out before we are 
aware j whereas a lie is troublesome, and one trick needs a 
great many more to make it good. 

Add to all this, that sincerity is the most compendious 
wisdom, and an excellent instrument for the speedy des- 
patch of business. It creates confidence in those we have 
to deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries, and brings 
things to an issue in a few words. It is like travelling in a 
plain beaten road, which commonly brings a man sooner to his 
journey's end than by ways, in which men often lose them- 
selves. In a word, whatever convenience may be thought 
to be in falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon over ; but 
the inconvenience of it is perpetual, because it brings a man 
under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, so that he is 
not believed when he speaks the truth, nor trusted when 
perhaps he means honestly. When a man hath once for- 
feited the reputation of his integrity, nothing will then 
serve his turn, neither truth nor falsehood. 

Indeed, if a man were only to deal in the world for a day, 
and should never have occasion to converse more with man- 
kind, never more need their good opinion or good word, it 
were then no great matter (as far as respects the affairs of 



Sect. I.] SPEAKING. 249 

this work!) if he spent his reputation all at once, and ven- 
tured it at one threw. But, if he be to continue in the 
world, ana would have the advantage of reputation whilst 
he is in it, let him make use of sincerity in all Ms words 
and act:;.:- ; for noth " ~ :his will held out to the end. 
All other arts will fail: bin truth ana integrity will carry 
a man througb, and bear him out to (he last. 

II. — 'On Doing as w,e would be Done unto. 

HUMAN laws are often so numerous as to escape our 
me ories ; so darkly sometimes, and inconsistently word- 
ed, Hidings ; and they are not un- 
freq more obscure by the nice distinc- 
tions and sul of those who profess to clear 
them: so tr sse rveral disadvantages, they lose 
much of 1 ace: and, in some ea sea, ra && 
more disputes, than, perhaps etermine. But r.ere 
is a : ■ - . .a none of these .inconveniences ; the 
grossest minds can scarce misapprehend it; the wea' 
memories are capable of retaining it; no perplexing com- 
raec cloud it; the authority cf no man ?s aioss 
upon earth can fif we are bu ' c?ve) sway us to make a 
wro ruction of it. What la said of ail the gospel 
prec Ihe evangelica at, is more eminently true 
of this : "It is ah: ; and the wayfaring man, though 
a fool, shall not err therein.' 5 

It is not enough that a rale, which is to he of general use, 
is suited to all capacities, so that, wherever it is represented 
to the mine, it is presently agreed io : it must also he apt 
to offer itself to our thoughts, an a lie ready for present use, 
upon all exigencies and occasions. And such, remarkably 
such, is that which our Lord here recommends to us. We 
can scarce be so iar surprised by any immediate necessity 
of acting, as not to have time for a short recourse to it, room 
for a sudden glance as it were upon it, in our minds ; where 
it rests and sparkles always, like the Urim and Thummim on 
the breast of Aaron. There is no occasion for us to go in 
search of it to the oracles of law, dead or living; to the code 
or pandects ; to the volumes of divines or moralists : we 
need look no further than ourselves for it : for, (to use the 
apposite expression of Moses.) u This commandment which 
I command thee this day, is not hidden from thee, neither 
is it far off It is not in heaven, that thou shouldest say, 
who shall go up for us to heaven, and brimritunto us ik&t 



250 LESSONS IN [Part I. 

we may hear it, and do it ? Neither is it be} r ond the sea, that 
thou shouldest say, Who shall go over the sea for us, and 
bring- it unto us, that we may hear it, and do it ? But the 
word is very nigh unto thee, in thy mouth, and in thy 
heart, that thou mayesf do it." 

It k, moreover, a precept particularly fitted for practice ; 
as it involves in the very notion of it a motive stirring us up 
to do what it enjoins. Other moral maxims propose naked 
truths to the understanding", which operate often but faintly 
and slowly on the will and passions, the two active princi- 
ples of the mind of man : but it is the peculiar character 
of this that it addresseth itself equally to all these powers ; 
imparts both light and heat to us ; and at the same time that it 
informs us certainly and clearly what we are to do, excites 
us also in the most tender and moving manner to the per- 
formance of it. We can often see our neighbour's misfor- 
tune, without a sensible degree of concern ; which yet we 
cannot forbear expressing, when w r e have once made his con- 
dition our own, and determined the measure of our obliga- 
tion towards him, by what we ourselves should, in such a 
case, expect from him ; our duty grows immediately our 
interest and pleasure, by means of this powerful principle : 
the seat of which is, in truth, not more in the brain, than in 
the heart of man : it appeals to our very senses ; and ex- 
erts its secret force in so prevailing a way, that it is even 
felt, as well as understood by us. 

The last recommendation of this rule I shall mention, is 
its vast and comprehensive influence ; for it extends to all 
ranks and conditions of men, and to all kinds of action and 
intercourse between them ; to matters of charity, generosi- 
ty, and civility, as well as justice ; to negative no less than 
positive duties. The ruler and the ruled are alike subject 
to it; public communities can no more exempt themselves 
from its obligation than private persons : u All persons 
must fall down before it, all nations must do it service. " 
And with reject to this extent of it, it is that our blessed 
Lord pronounces it in the text to be " the law and the 
prophets." His meaning is, that whatever rules of the se- 
cond table are delivered in the law of Moses, or in the 
larger comments and explanations of that law made by the 
other writers of the Old Testament (here and elsewhere 
styled the prophets,) they are all virtually comprised in 
this one short significant saying, " Whatsoever ye would 
that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them." 



Sect, t] SPEAKING. 251 

III. — On Benevolence and Charity* 

FORM as amiable sentiments as you can, cf nation?, com- 
munities of men, and individuals. If they are true, you 
do them only justice ; if false, though your opinion does 
not alter their nature and make them lovely, you yourself 
are more lovely for entertaining such sentiments. When 
you feel the bright warmth of a temper thoroughly good in 
your own breast^ you will see something good in every one 
about you. It is a mark of littleness of spirit to confine 
yourself to some minute part of a mans character : a man of 
generous, open, extended views^ will grasp the whole of it ; 
without which he cannot pass a right judgment on any part. 
He will not arraign a niatf s general conduct for two or three 
particular actions ; as knowing that man is a changeable 
creature, and will not cease to be so, till he is united to 
that Being, who is " the same yesterdays to-d^y^ and for- 
ever." He strives to outdo his friends in good offices, and 
overcomes his enemies by them. He thinks he then receives 
the greatest injury, when he returns and revenges one : for 
then he is c; overcome of evil." Is the person young who 
has injured him ? he will reflect that inexperience of the 
world, and a warmth of constitution, may betray his unprac- 
tised years into several inadvertencies, which a more ad- 
vanced age, his own good sense, and the advice of a judi- 
cious friend, will correct and rectify. Is he old? the 
infirmities of age and want of health may have set an edgQ 
upon his spirits, and made him ;i speak unadvisedly with 
his lips." Is he weak and ignorant ? he considers that it is 
a duty incumbent upon the wise to bear with those that are 
not so : " Ye suffer fools gladly," says St. Paul, " seeing 
ye yourselves are wise." In short, he judges of himself 
as far as he can, with the strict rigour of justice ; but of 
others, with the softenings of humanity. 

From charitable and benevolent thoughts, the transition 
is unavoidable to charitable actions. For wherever there is 
an inexhaustible fund of goodness at the heart, it will, under 
all the disadvantages of circumstances, exert itself in acts of 
substantial kindness. He that is substantially good, will 
be doing good. The man that has a hearty determinate 
will to be charitable, will seldom put men off with the mere 
will for the deed. For a sincere desire to do good, implies 
some uneasiness till the thing be done : and uneasiness sets 
the mind at work, and puts it upon the stretch to find out a 



<m LESSONS IN [Part 11.' 

thousand ways and means of obliging, which will ever es- 
cape the unconcerned, the indifferent, and the unfeeling. 

The most proper objects of your bounty are the neces- 
sitous. Give the same sum of money, which you bestow on 
a person in tolerable circumstances, to one in extreme po- 
verty ; and observe what a wide disproportion of Jiappiness 
is produced. In the latter case, it is like giving a cordial 
to a fainting person ; in the former, it is like giving wine 
to him who has already quenched his thirst. — u Mercj r is 
seasonable in time of affliction, like clouds of rain in time 
of drought." 

And among the variety of necessitous objects, none have 
a better title to our compassion, than those, who, after hav* 
ing tasted the sweets of plenty, are, by some undeserved 
calamity, obliged, without some charitable relief, to drag 
cut the remainder of life in misery and wo : who little 
thought ^aey should ask their daily bread of any but of God ; 
who, after a life led in aiiluence, " cannot dig^ ami are 
ashamed to beg." And they are to be relieved in such an 
endearing manner, with such a beauty of holiness, that, at 
the same time that their wants are supplied, their confu- 
sion of face may be prevented. 

There is not an instance of this kind in history so aifect- 
ing, as that beautiful one of Boaz to Ruth. He knew her 
family, rind how she was reduced to the lowest ebb : when, 
therefore, she begged leave to glean in his fields, he order- 
ed his reapers to let fall several handfuls, with a seeming 
carelessness, but really with a set design, that she might 
gather them up without Leiax ashamed. Thus did he form 
an artful scheme, that he might .give, without the vanity" 
and ostentation of giving ; and she receive, without the 
shame and confusion of making acknowledgments. — -Take 
the history in the words of scripture, as it is recorded iia 
the book of Ruth. w And when she was risen up to glean, 
Boaz commanded his young men, saying, Let her glean 
even among the sheaves, and rehuke her not; and let fall 
also some of the handfuls on purpose, and leave them that 
she may glean them, and reproach her not." This was not 
only doing a good action ; it was doing it likewise with a 
good grace. 

It is not enough we do no harm, that we be negative!/ 
good ; we must do good, positive good, if we would ct enter 
in o life." When it would have been as good for the world, 
if such a man had never lived j it would perhaps have beea 



l\ Si: 



Iter for Mm, u if he had never. been born.-' A scanty 
fortune may limit your beneficence, and confine it chic 

the circle of your domestics, relations^ and neighbours; 
but let your benevolence extend as far as thought can travel, 
to the utmost bounds of the world : just as it may be only 
in your power to beautify the spot 01 ground that lies near 
and close to you ; but you could wish, that, as far as your 
eye can reach, the whole prospect beibre you were cheer- 
ful, every thing disagreeable were removed, and everything 
beautiful made more so. 

THE great pursuit of man is after happiness : it is the 
first and strongest desire of his nature ;— in every stage of 
his life he searches for it as for hid treasure ;— courts it un- 
der a thousand different shapes ; — and, though perpetually 
disappointed — still persists— runs alter and inquires for it 
afresh— asks every p r who comes in his way, u Who 

will snow him any good ?" — Who will assist him in the at- 

anient of it, or direct him to the discovery of this great 
e end of all his wishes *? 

He is told by one, to search for it among the more gay 
and youthful pleasures of life : in scenes of mirth and 
Sjprightliness, where happiness ever presides, and is ever to 
be known by the joy and laughter which he will see at once 
painted in her looks. 

A second, with a graver a?pect, points out to him the 
costly dwellings which pride ana extravagance have erect- 
ed ; — tells the inquirer that the object he is in search of 
inhabits there; — that happiness lives only in company with 
the great, in the midst of much pomp and outward state. 
That he mil easily find her out by the coat of many colour? 
she has on, and the great luxury and expense of equipage 
and furniture with which she always sits surrounded. 

Thi miser wonders how an} 7 one would mislead and wil- 
fully put him upon so wrong a scent — convinces him that 
hap nd extravagance never inhabited under the same 

roo, if he would not be disappointed in his search, 

he must Look into the plain and thrifty dwelling of the pru- 
dent man, who knows and understands the worth of money, 
and cautiously lays it up against an evil hour: that it is not 
the prostitution of wealth upon the passions, or the parting" 
with it at all, that constitutes hav-dness — but that it is *he 
keeping it together, and the having and holding it fast tfr 



254 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

him and his heirs for ever, which are the chief attributes 
that form this great idol of human worship, to which so 
much incense is offered up every day. 

The epicure, though he easily rectifies so gross a mis- 
take, yet, at the same time, he plunges him, if possible, 
into a greater : for, hearing the object of his pursuit to be 
happiness, and knowing of no other happiness than what is 
seated immediately in his senses— he sends the inquirer 
there ; — tells him it is in vain to search elsewhere for it, than 
where nature herself has placed it — in the indulgence and 
gratification of the appetites, which are given us for that 
end : and in a word — if he will not take his opinion in the 
matter — he may trust the word of a much wiser man, who 
has assured us — that there is nothing better in this world, 
than that a man should eat and drink, and rejoice in his 
works, and make his soul enjoy good in his labour — for that 
is his portion. 

To rescue him from this brutal experiment — ambition 
takes him by the hand and carries him into the world — 
shows him all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of 
them — points out the many ways of advancing his fortune 
and raising himself to honour,— lays before his eyes all the 
charms and bewitching* temptations of power, and asks if 
there be any happiness in this world like that of being ca- 
ressed, courted, ilattered, and followed ? 

To close all, the philosopher meets him bustling in the 
full career of his pursuit — stops him — tells him, if he is in 
search of happiness, he is gone far out of his way : — That 
this deity has long been banished from noise and tumults, 
where there was no rest found for her, and was fled into soli- 
tude far from all commerce of the world; and, in a word, 
if he would find her, he must leave this busy and intriguing 
scene, and go back to that peaceful scene of retirement and 
books from which he first set out. 

In this circle, too often does a man run, tries all experi- 
ments, and generally sits down wearied and dissatisfied 
with them all at last — in utter despair of ever accomplish- 
ing what he wants— not knowing what to trust to, after so 
many disappointments — -or where to lay the fault, whether 
in the incapacity of his own nature, or the insufficiency of 
the enjoyments themselves. 

In this uncertain and perplexed state — without knowing 
which w r ay to turn or where to betake ourselves for refuge 
—so often, abused and deceived by the many who pretend 



Sect, I.] • . SPEAKING. 255 

thus to show us any good — Lord i says the psalmist, lift 
up the light of thy countenance upon us. — Send us some 
rays of thy grace and heavenly wisdom, in this benighted 
search after happiness, to direct us safely to it. O God ! 
let us not wander for ever without a guide, in this dark re- 
gion, in endless pursuit of our mistaken gecd ; but enlight- 
en our eyes that we sleep not in death — open to them the 
comforts of thy holy word and religion — lift up the light of 
thy countenance upon us, — and make us know the joy and 
satisfaction of living in the true faith and tear of Thee, 
which only can carry us to this haven cf rest where we would 
be — that sure haven, where true joys are to be found, which 
will at length not only answer all our expectations — but 
satisfy the most unbounded of our wishes for ever and ever, 

There is hardly any subject more exhausted, or which at 
one time or other has afforded more mutter for argument 
and declamation, than this one, of the insufficiency of cur 
enjoyments. Scarce a reformed sensualist, from Solomon 
down to our own days, who has not, in some fits of repentance 
os disappointment, uttered some sharp reflection upon the 
emptiness of human pleasure, and of the vanity of vanities 
which discovers itself in ail the pursuits of mortal man. — - 
But the mischief has been, that, though so many good 
things have been said, they have generally had the fate to 
be considered, either as the ovariio wings of disgust from 
sated appetites which could no longer relish the pleasures 
of life, or as the declamatory opinions of recluse and sple- 
netic men, w T ho had never tasted them at ail, and, conse- 
quently, were thought no judges of the matter. So that it 
is no great wonder, if the greatest part of such reflections, 
however just in themselves, and founded on truth and a 
knowledge of the world, are found to have little impres- 
sion where the imagination was already heated with great 
expectations of future happiness ; and that the best lectures 
that have been read upon the vanity of the world, so sel- 
dom stop a man in the pursuit of the object of his desire, 
or give him half the conviction, that the possession of it 
will, and what the experience of his own life, or a careful 
observation upon the life of others, does at length gene- 
rally confirm to us all, 

1 would not be understood as if I were denying the reali- 
ty of pleasures, or disputing the being of them, any more 
than any one would the reality of pain — yet I must observe, 
that there is a plain distinction to be made betwixt pleasure 



253 LESSONo IN [Part II 

and happiness. For though there can be no happiness with- 
out pleasure — -yet the reverse of the proposition will not 
fold true.— We are so made, that, from the common grati- 
fications of our appetites, and the impressions of a thousand 
objects, we snatch the one like a transient gleam, without 
being suffered to taste the other, and enjoy the perpetual 
sunshine and fair weather which constantly attend it. This, 
I contend, is only to be found in religion — in the conscious- 
ness of virtue-— an'.] the sure and certain hopes of a better 
life, which brightens all our prospects, and leaves no room 
to dread disappointments— -because the expectation of it is 
built upon a rock whose foundations are as deep as those 
$f heaven or hell 

And though, in our pilgrimage through this world — 
some of us may be so fortunate as to meet with some clear 
fountains by the way, that may cool, for a lew moments, 
the heat of this great thirst of happiness — yet our Saviour, 
who knew the world, though he enjoyed but little of it, 
tells us, that whosoever drinketh of this water will thirst 
again : — and we all find by experience it is so, and by rea- 
son that it always must be so. 

I conclude with a short observation upon Solomon's evi- 
dence in this case. 

Never did the busy brain of a lean and hectic chymist 
search ibr the philosopher's stone with more pains and 
ardour than this great man did after happiness. He was 
one of the wisest inquirers into nature — -had tried all her 
powers and capacities ; and, after a thousand vain specula- 
tions and idle experiments, be affirmed at length, it lay 
hid in no one thing he had tried : like the chymists projec- 
tions, all had ended in smoke, or, what was worse, in vanity 
and vexation of spirit. The conclusion of the whole matter 
: this— that he advises every man who would be happy, 
to fear God and keep his edmrnundments. 
V;-i.On the Death of Christ 

THE redemption of man is one of the most glorious 
works of the Almighty. If the hour of the creation of the 
world was great and illustrious ; that hour, when, from the 
dark and formless mass, this fair system of nature arose at 
the Divine command ; when " the morning stars sang to- 
gether, and ail the sons of God shouted for joy ;" — no less 
illustrious is the hour of the restoration of the world; the 
hour, when, from condemnation and miser}', it emerged 
into happiness and peace. With less external majesty it 



Sect. I.} SPEAKING. 257 

was attended, but is, on that account, the more wonderful, 
that, under appearance so simple, such great events were 
covered. 

In the hour of Chrises death, the long series of prophe- 
cies, visions, types, and figures, was accomplished. This 
was the centre in which they all met; this the point to- 
wards which they had tended and verged, throughout the 
course of so many generations. You behold the law and 
the Prophets standing, if we may so speak, at the foot of 
the cross, and doing homage. You behold Moses and 
Aaron bearing the ark of the covenant ; David and Elijah 
presenting the oracle of testimony. You behold all the 
priests and sacrifices, all the rites and ordinances, all the 
types and symbols, assembled together to receive their 
consummation. Without the death of Christ, the worship 
and ceremonies of the law would have remained a pompous 
but unmeaning institution. In the hour when he was cru- 
cified, " the book with the seven seals" was opened. Every 
rite assumed its significancy ; every prediction met its 
event ; every symbol displayed its correspondence. 

This was the hour of the abolition of the Law, and the 
introduction of the Gospel; the hour of terminating the 
old, and of beginning the new dispensation of religious 
knowledge and worship throughout the earth. Viewed in 
this light, it forms the most august era which is to be found 
in the history of mankind. When Christ was suffering on 
the cross, we are informed hy one of the evangelists, that 
he said, " I thirst ;" and that they filled a sponge with vi- 
negar, and put it to his mouth. u After he had tasted the 
vinegar," knowing that all things were now accomplished, 
and the scripture fulfilled, he said, "It is finished;' 5 that is, 
this offered draught of vinegar was the last circumstance 
predicted by an ancient prophet that remained to be fulfill- 
ed. The vision and the prophecy are now sealed: the Mo- 
saic dispensation is closed. " And he bowed his head, and 
gave up the ghost." — Significantly was the veil of the tem- 
ple rent in this hour ; for the glory then departed from be- 
tween the cherubims. The legal high priest delivered up 
his Urim and Thummim, his breastplate, his robes, and his 
incense : and Christ stood forth as the great High Priest 
of all succeeding generations. By that one sacrifice which 
he now offered, he abolished sacrifices for ever. Altars 
on which the fire had blazed for ages were now to smoke no 
more, Victims were no more to bleed* « Not with the 

y 2 



25S LESSONS IN [Part II. 

blood of bulls and goats, but with his own blood, he now 
entered into the Holy Place, there to appear in the presence 
of God for us,' 5 

This was the hour of association and union to all the 
worshippers of God. When Christ said, u It is finished," 
he threw down the wall of partition which had so long di- 
vided the Gentile from the Jew. He gathered into one, all 
the faithful, out of every kindred and people. He pro- 
claimed the hour to be come, when the knowledge of the 
true God should be no longer confined to one nation, nor 
his worship to one temple ; but over all the earth, the wor- 
shippers of the Father should " serve him in spirit and in 
truth." From that hour, they who dwelt in the "uttermost 
ends of the earth, strangers to the covenant of promise, 7 ' 
began to be " brought nigh. 75 In that hour, the light of tho 
gospel dawned from afar on the British islands. 

This was the hour of Christ's triumph over all the pow- 
ers of darkness ; the hour in which he overthrew dominions 
and thrones, '" led captivity captive, and gave gifts unto 
men." The contest which the kingdom of darkness had long 
maintained against the kingdom of light, was now brought 
to its crisis. The period was come, when " r the seed of the 
woman should bruise the head of the serpent." For many 
ages, the most gross superstition had filled the earth. — 
u The glory of the incorruptible God was," every where, 
except in the land of Judea, " changed into images made 
like to corruptible man, and to birds, and beasts, and creep- 
ing things." The world, which the Almighty created for 
himself, seemed to have become a temple of idols. Even to 
vices and passions altars were raised ; and what was entitled 
Religion, was, in effect, a discipline of impurity. In the 
midst of this universal darkness, Satan had erected his 
throne : and the learned and polished, as well as the savage 
nations, bowed down before him. But at the hour when 
Christ appeared on the cross, the signal of his defeat was 
given. His kingdom suddenly departed from him ; the 
reign of idolatry passed away : He was " beheld to fall like 
lightning from heaven." In that hour, the foundation of 
every Pagan temple shook ; the statue of every false god 
tottered on its base ; the priest lied from his falling shrine; 
and the heathen oracles became dumb for ever. 

Death also, the last foe to man, was the victim of this 
hour. The formidable appearance of the spectre remained, 
hut his dart was taken away: for in the hour when Christ 



Sect. II.] SPEAKING. 259 

expiated guilt, he disarmed death, by securing the resur- 
rection of the just. When he said to his penitent fellow- 
sufferer, " To-day thou shall be with me in paradise,*' he 
announced to all his followers the certainty of heavenly 
bliss. He declared a the cherubims" to he dismissed, and 
the u flaming sword"' to he sheathed, which had been ap- 
pointed at the fall " to keep from man the way of the Tree 
of life." Faint, before this period, had been the hope, in- 
distinct the prospect, which even good men enjoyed of the 
heavenly kingdom. — " Life and immortality were now 
brought to light." From the hill of Calvary, the first clear 
and certain view waf given to the world, of the everlast- 
ing mansions. Since that hour, they have been the per- 
petual consolation of the believers in Christ. Under trouble, 
they sooth their minds ; amidst temptations, they support 
•their virtue ; and, in their dying moments, enable them to 
say, « O death ! where is thy sting ? O grave ! where is 
thy victory ?" 



SECTION II. 
ELOQUENCE OF THE SEjVATE. 

I — Speech of the Earl of Chester -field , in the House of Lords , 
February 22, 1740, on the Pension Bill. 

MY LORDS, 

IT is now so late, and so much has been said in favour of 
the motion for the second reading of the Pension Bill, by 
Lords much abler than I am, that I shall detain you but a 
very short while with what I have to say upon the subject. 
It has been said by a noble Duke, that this bill can be 
looked on only as a bill for preventing a grievance that is 
foreseen, and not as a bill for remedying a grievance that is 
already felt ; because it is not asserted, nor"so much as in- 
sinuated in the preamble of the bill, that any corrupt prac- 
tices are now made use of, for gaining an undue influence 
over the other House. My Lords, this was the very reason 
for bringing in the bill. They could net assert, that any 
such practices are now made use of, without a proof; and 
the means for coming- at this proof, is what they want, and 
what they propose to get by this bill. They suspect there 
are such practices, but they cannot prove it. The crime 
is of such a secret nature, that it can very seldom be proved 



260 LESSONS IN [Part II, 

by witnesses, and therefore they want to put it to the trial, 
at least, of being proved by the oath of one of the parties; 
which is a method often taken in cases that can admit of 
no other proof. This is, therefore, no argument of the 
grievance not being felt; for a man may, very sensibly, 
feel a grievance, and } T et may not be able to prove it. 

That there is a suspicion of some such practices being 
now made use of, or that they will soon be made use of, the 
many remonstrances from all parts of the united kingdoms 
are a sufficient proof. That this suspicion has crept into 
the other House, their having so frequently sent up this 
bill is a manifest demonstration, and a strong argument for 
its being necessary to have some such bill passed into a 
law. The other House must be allowed to be better judges 
of what passes, or must pass, within their own walls, than 
we can pretend to be. It is evident, they suspect that cor : 
rupt practices have been, or soon may be, made use of, for 
gaining an undue influence over some of their measures : 
and they have calculated this bill for curing the evil, if it 
is felt ; for preventing it, if it is only foreseen. That; any 
such practices have been actually made use of, or are now 
made use of, is what I shall not pretend to affirm ; but 1 
am sure I shall not affirm the contrarj r . If any such are 
made use of, I will, with confidence, vindicate his Majesty. 
I am sure he knows nothing of them. I am sure he will 
disdain to suffer them : but I cannot pass such a compli- 
ment upon his ministers, nor upon any set of ministers that 
ever was, or ever will be, in this nation ; and, therefore, 
I think i cannot more faithfully, more effectually, serve his 
present Majesty, as well as his successors, than by putting 
it out of the power of ministers to gain any corrupt influ- 
ence over either House of Parliament. Such an attempt 
may be necessary for the security of the minister, but 
must always be inconsistent with the security of his mas- 
ter: and the more necessary it is for the minister's securi- 
ty, the more inconsistent it will always be with the king's, 
and the more dangerous to the liberties of the nation. 

To pretend, my Lords, that this bill diminishes, or any 
way encroaches upon the prerogative, is something very 
strange. What prerogative, my Lords ? Has the crown a 
prerogative to bribe, to infringe the law, by sending its 
pensioners into the other House ? To say so, is destroying 
the credit, the authority of the crown, under the pretence 
©f supporting its prerogative. If his Majesty knew that 



II.] SPEAKING. 261 

- man received a pension from him, or any thing like a 

-ion, and yet kept his seat in the other Hopse, he would 
himself declare it, or withdraw his pension, because he 
knows it is against law. This hill, therefore, no way dimi- 
nishes or encroaches upon the prerogative of the crown, 
which can never he exercised hut for the public good. It 
diminishes only the prerogaiive usurped by ministers, which 
is never exercised but for its destruction. The crown may 
reward merit in the proper way, that is, openly. The 
bin is intended, and can operate only against clandestine 
rewards, or gratuities given by ministers. These are scan- 
dalous, and never were, nor will be, given but for scanda- 
lous services. 

It is very remarkable, my Lords, it is even diverting;, to 
see such a squeamlshness about perjury upon this occ^ isic in, 
among those, who, upon ether occasions, have invented 
and enacted multitudes of oaths, to be taken by men who 
are under great temptations, from their private interest, to 
be guilty of perjury. Is not this the case of almost evevf 
oath that relates to the collection of the public revenue, or 
to the exercise 01 any office ? is not this penury one of 
the chief objections made by the dissenters against the Test 
and Corporation Act? And shaii we show a iess concern 
for the preservation of cur constitution, than for the pre- 
servation of our church ? The reverend bench should be 
cautious of making use of ibis argument ; for if they will 
no' is an oath for the preservation of the former, it 

will induce many people to think, they ought not to be 
allowed an oath for the preservation of the latter. 

By this time, 1 hope, my lords, all the inconveniences 
pretended to arise from t\ iave vanished ; and there- 

fore I shall consider some of the arguments brought to show 
that it is net necessary. Here 1 must observe, that most 
of the arguments made use offer this purpose, are eeually 
strong for a ropes 1 of the laws w«. have already in 
against admitting pensioners to sit and vote in ih : 
House, If it be impossible to suppose, that a gentleman of 
great estate and ancient family can, by a pension, be in- 
fluenced to do what he ought no: to do ; and if we must 
suppose, that none hut such gentlemen can ever get into 
the other Hotise, 1 am sure the laws for preventing pcu- 
sioners irsv: Shaving seats in tlfat House are quite unneces- 
sary, and ought to he repealed. There fore, if these argu- 
ments prevail wilh your Lordship, to put a negative upon 



o5 



282 LESSONS IN -[Par? II. 

the present question, I shall expect to see (bat negative 
followed by a motion for the repeal of those laws ; nay, in 
a few sessions, I shall expect to see a bill brought in, tor 
preventing any man's being a member of the other House, 
but such as have some place or pension under the crown. 
As an argument for such a bill, it might be said, that his 
Majesty's most faithful subjects ought to be chosen mem- 
bers of Parliament, and that those gentlemen will always 
be most faithful to the king, that receive the king's money. 
I shall grant, my Lords, that such gentlemen will be always 
the most faithful, and the most obedient to the minister; 
but for this very reason, 1 should be for excluding them 
from Parliament. The king's real interest, however much 
he may be made by his ministers to mistake it, must always 
be the same with the people's ; but the minister's interest 
is generally distinct from, and often contrary to both : 
therefore I shall always be for excluding as much as pos- 
sible, from Parliament, every man who is under the least 
inducement to prefer the interest of the minister to that of 
both king and people : and this I take to be the case of 
every gentleman, let his estate and family be what they 
will, that holds a pension at the will of the minister. 

Those who say,, they depend so much upon the honour., 
integrity, and impartiality of men of family and fortune, 
seem to think our constitution can never be dissolved as 
long as we have the shadow of a Parliament. My opinion, 
my Lords, is so very different, that, if ever our constitution 
be dissolved, if ever an absolute monarchy be established io> 
this kingdom, I am convinced it wiil be under that shadow. 
Our constitution consists in the two Houses of Parliament 
being a check upon the crowm,as well as upon one another. 
If that check should ever be removed, if the crown should, 
by corrupt means, by places, pensions, and bribes, get the 
absolute direction of our two Houses of Parliament, our 
constitution will, from that moment be destroyed. There 
would be no occasion for the crown to proceed any farther. 
It would be ridiculous to lay aside the forms of Parliament ; 
for under that shadow our king "would be more absolute, 
and might govern more arbitrarily, than he could do with- 
out it. A gentleman of family and fortune, would not, per- 
haps, for the sake of a pension, agree to lay aside the forms 
of government ; because, by his venal service there, he 
earns his infamous pension, and could not expect the con- 
tinuance of it, if those forms w r ere laid aside : but a gentle- 



Sect. I'L] SPEAKING. 263 

roan of family and fortune may, for the sake of a pension, 
whilst he U in Parliament, approve of the most blundering 
measures, consent to the most excessive and useless grants, 
enact the most oppressive laws, pass the most villanous ac- 
counts, acquit the most heinous criminals, and condemn 
the most innocent persons, at the desire of that minister 
v, o pays him his pension. And, if a majority of spejh 
House of Parliament consisted of such men, would it noi oe 
ridiculous in us to talk of our constitution, or to say we had 
any liberty left ? — This misfortune, this terrible condition, 
we may be reduced to hy corruption ; as brave, as free a 
people as we, the Romans, were reduced to it by the same 
means ; and to prevent such a horrid catastrophe, is the de- 
sign of this bill. 

If people would at all think, if they would consider the 
consequences of corruption, there would be no occasion, 
my Lords, for making* laws against it. It would appear so 
horrible, that no man would allow it to approach him. The 
corrupted ought to consider, that they do not sell their vote, 
or their country only : these, perhaps, they may disregard ; 
but they sell likewise themselves : they become the bond- 
slaves of the corrupter, who corrupts them, not for their 
sakes, but for his own. No man ever corrupted another 
for the sake of doing him a service. And therefore, if peo- 
ple would but consider, the}' would always reject the offer 
with disdain. But this is not to be expected.^ The histo- 
ries of all countries, the history even of our own country, 
shows it is not to be depended on. The proffered bribe, 
people think, will satisfy the immediate craving of some 
infamous appetite ; and^this makes them swallow the al- 
luring bait, though the liberties of their country, the happi- 
ness of their poster ,ty, and even their own liberty, evident- 
ly depend upon their refusing it. This makes it necessary, 
in every free state, to contrive, if possible, effectual laws 
against corruption: and, as the laws we now have for ex- 
cluding pensioners from the other House, are allowed to be 
ineffectual, we ought to make a trial, at least, of the re- 
medy now proposed : for though it should prove ineffectual, 
it will 'be attended with this advantage, that it wall put us 
upon contriving some other remedy that may be effectual; 
and the sooner such a remedy is contrived and applied, the 
less danger we shall be exposed to of failing into that fatal 
distemper, from which no free state, where it has once be* 
come general^ has e^w^et recovered* 



264 LESSONS IN [Part Ii. 

IL— Lord M \s SpeecJuin the House of Lords, 1770, 

on the Bill for fke fwrtlier preventing the delays of Justice, 
by reason of Privilege of Parliament. 

1IY LORDSj 

WHEN I consider the importance of this bill to your 
Lordships, I am not surprise*! it has taken up so much of 
your consideration. It is a bill, i-ideed, of no common 
magnitude : It is no less than to take away from two tie 
of the legislative body of this gtfe it kingdom, certain privi- 
leges and immunities of w bich : ! ^y have long been possess- 
ed. Perhaps there is no situation the human mind can be 
placed in, thai is so difficult and so trying, as when it is 
made a judge in its own cause. There is something im- 
planted in the breast of man so attached to self, so tenacious 
of privileges ence obtained, that, in such a situation-, either 
to di?cus-~ with impartiality, or decide with justice, has ever 
been held as the summit of all human virtue, The bill 
now in question puts your Lordships in this very predica- 
ment ; and 1 doubt not but the wisdom of your decision 
will convince the world, that where self-interest and justice 
are in opposite scales, the latter will ever preponderate with 
your Lordships. 

Privileges have been granted to legislators in all a:~es, 
and in all countries The practice is iounded in wisdom : 
and, indeed, it is peculiarly essential to the constitution of 
thig coentry, that the members of both Houses should ■ e 
free in their persons in cases of civil suits ; for there may 
come a time when the safety and welfare of tljis whole em- 
pire may :epend upon their attendance in Parliament. — 
God forbid that 1 should advise anv measure that would in 
future endanger the state : but the hill hefore your Lord- 
ships has, I am confident, no such tendency ; for it express- 
ly secures the persons of members of either House in aW 
civil suits. This being the case, I confess when 1 see many 
noble Lords, for whose judgments 1 have a very great re- 
spect, standing up to oppose a bill which is calculated mere- 
ly to facilitate the recovery of just and legal debts, I am as- 
tonished and amazed. They, 1 doubt not, oppose the bill 
upon public principles : 1 would not wish to insinuate, that 
private interest had the least weight in their determination. 

This bill has been frequently proposed, and as frequently 
miscarried; but it w T as always lost in the lower House.— 
Little did 1 think, wjiea it had passed the Commons^thatit 



Sect. II.] SPEAKING. 1 265 

possibly could have met with such opposition here. Shall 
it be said that you, my Lords, the grand council of the na- 
tion, the highest judicial and legislative body of the realm, 
endeavour to evade, by privilege, those very laws which 
you enforce on your fellow-subjects ? Forbid it, justice ! — 
I am sure were the noble Lords as well acquainted as I am 
with but half the difficulties and delays occasioned in the 
courts of justice, under pretence of privilege, they would 
not, nay they could not, oppose this bill. 

I have waited with patience to hear what arguments 
might be urged against the bill, but I have waited in vain ; 
the truth is, there is no argument that can weigh against it. 
The justice and expediency of the bill are such as render 
it self-evident. Tt is a proposition of that nature, that can 
neither be weakened by argument, nor entangled with so- 
phistry. Much, indeed, has been said by some noble Lords 
on the wisdom of our ancestors, and how r differently they 
thought from us. They not only decreed, that privilege 
should prevent all civil suits from proceeding during the 
sitting of Parliament, but likewise granted protection to the 
very servants of members. I shall say nothing on the wis- 
dom of our ancestors ; it might perhaps appear invidious : 
that is not necessary in the present case. I shall only say, 
that the noble Lords who flatter themselves with the weight 
of that reflection, should remember, that as circumstances 
alter, things themselves should alter. Former!?, it was not 
so fashionable either for masters or servants to run in debt 
as it is at present. Formerly, we were not that great com- 
mercial nation we are at present ; nor formerly were mer- 
chants and manufacturers me ibers of Parliament, as at 
present. The case now is very different ; bcth merchants 
and manufacturers are, with great propriety^ elected mem- 
bers of the Lower House. Commerce having thus got into 
the legislative body of the khjgdom, privilege must be done 
away. We all know, that the tery soul and essence of 
trade are regular payments; and sad experience ie aches 
us, that there are men, who will not make theii tegular 
payments with : he compulsive power of the law. The 
law then ougb: to be equally open to all : any exemption! 
of particular men 01 particular ranks of men, is, in a free 
and commercial country, a solecism of the grossest nature. 
\ But I will not trouble youx Lordships with arguments for 
that which is sufficiently v at wit a out any. I shall only 
say a few words to some aoole Lords* wfoo foresee muck 



268 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

inconveniency from the persons of their servants being 
liable to be arrested. One noble Lord observes, that the 
coachman of a peer may be arrested while he is driving his 
master to the House, and, consequently, he will not be able 
to attend his duty in Parliament. If this were actually to 
happen, there are so many methods by which the member 
might still get to the House, that I can hardly think the 
noble Lord is serious in his objection. Another noble Peer 
said, That by this bill one might lose their most valuable 
and honest servants. This I hold to be a contradiction in 
terms ; for he can neither be a valuable servant, nor an 
honest man, who gets into deht which he is neither able 
iior willing to pa} r , till compelled by law. If my servant, 
by unforeseen accidents, has got into debt, and I still wish 
to retain him, I certainly would pay the debt. But upon 
no principle of liberal legislation whatever, can my servant 
have a title to set his creditors at defiance, while, for forty 
shillings only, the honest tradesman may be torn from his 
family, and locked up in a gaol. It is monstrous injustice ! 
I flatter myself, however, the determination of this day 
will entirely put an end to all such partial proceedings for 
the future, by passing into a law the bill now under your 
Lordships' consideration. 

I come now to speak upon what, indeed, I would have 
gladly avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at for 
the part I have taken in this bill. It has been said by a no- 
ble Lord on my left hand, that I likewise am running the 
race of popularity. If the noble Lord means by populari- 
ty, that applause bestowed by after-ages on good and vir- 
tuous actions, I have long been struggling in that race ; to 
what purpose, all-trying time can alone determine ; but if 
the noble Lord means that mushroom popularity that is rais- 
ed without merit, and lost without a crime, he is much mis- 
taken in his opinion. I defy the noble Lord to point out a 
single action of my life, where the popularity of the times 
ever had the smallest influence on my determinations. I 
thank God I have a more permanent and steady rule for 
my conduct,- — the dictates of my own breast. Those that 
have foregone that pleasing adviser, and given up the mind 
to be the slave of every popular impulse, I sincerely pity : 
I pity them still more, if their vanity leads them to mis- 
take the shouts of a mob for the trumpet of fame. Ex- 
perience might inform them, that many who have been 
saluted with the huzzas of a crowd one day. have received 



Sect, ft.] SPEAKING, 267 ' 

their (execrations the next ; and many, who, by the popu- 
larity of their times, have been held up as spotless patriots, 
have, nevertheless, appeared upon the historian's page, 
when truth has triumphed over delusion, the assassins of 
liberty. Why then the noble Lord can think I am am- 
bitious of present popularity, that echo of folly, and sha- 
dow of renown, I am at a loss to determine, Besides, I 
do not know that the hill now before your Lordships will 
he popular : it depends much upon the caprice of the day. 
it may not be popular to compel people to pay their debts; 
and in that case, the present must be a very unpopular hill. 
It may not be popular neither to take away any of the pri- 
vileges of Parliament ; for I very well remember, and many 
of your Lordships may remember, that not long ago the 
popular cry was for the extension of privilege ; and so far 
did they carry it at that time, that it was said that the pri- 
vilege protected members even in criminal actions ; nay, 
such was the power of popular prejudices over weak minds, 
that the very decisions of some of the courts were tinctured 
with that doctrine. It was undoubtedly an abominable 
doctrine ; I thought so then, and think so still : but, never- 
theless, it was a popular doctrine, and came immediately 
from those who are called the friends of liberty : how de- 
servedly, time will show. True liberty, in my opinion, can 
only exist when justice is equally administered to all ; to 
the king, and to the beggar. Where is the justice then, or 
where is the law, that protects a member of parliament more 
than any other man, from the punishment due to his 
crimes ? The laws of this country allow of no place, nor 
an}^ emplo} ? ment, to be a sanctuary for crimes ; and where 
I have the honour to sit as judge, neither royal favour nor 
popular applause shall ever protect the guilty. 

I have now only to beg pardon for having* employed so 
much of your Lordships' time ; and I am sorry a bill, 
fraught with so many good consequences, has not met with 
an abler advocate ; but I doubt not your Lordships' 5 deter- 
mination will convince the world, that a bill calculated to 
contribute so much to the equal distribution of justice, as 
the present, requires, with your Lordships, but very little 
support. 



26a LESSONS IN [ Part il 

SECTION III. 

ELOQUENCE OF THE BAR. 

I.— Cicero against Verres. 

THE time is come, Fathers, when that which ha? long- 
been wished for, towards allaying the envy your order has 
been subject to, and removing the imputations against tri- 
als, is effectually put in your power. An opinion has long 
prevailed not only here at home, but likewise in foreign 
countries, both dangerous to you and pernicious to the state 
— that in prosecutions, men of wealth are always safe, how- 
ever clearly convicted. There is now to he brought upon 
this trial before you, to the confusion, I hope, of the pro- 
pagators of this slanderous imputation, one whose life and 
actions condemn him ill the opinion of all impartial per- 
sons : but who, according to his own reckoning and declared 
dependance upon his riches, is already acquitted ; I mean 
Cains Verres. 1 demand justice of you, Fathers, upon the 
robber of the public treasury, the oppressor of Asia Minor, 
and Pamphylia, the invader of the rights and privileges 
of Romans, the scourge and curse of Sicily. If that sen- 
tence is passed upon him which his crimes deserve, your au- 
thority, Fathers, will be venerable and sacred in the eyes of 
the public ; but if his great riches should bias you in his fa- 
vour, I shall still gain one point— -to make it apparent to all 
the world, that what was wanting in this case, was not a cri- 
minal nor a prosecutor, but justice and adequate punishment 
To pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth, 
what dose his quasstorship, the first public employment he 
I) >id, vshai does it exhibit, but one continued scene of yil- 
::s? Cneius Carbo plundered of the public money by 
this own treasurer, a consul stripped and betrayed, an army 
v deserfed and reduced to want, a province robbed, the civil 
and religious rights of a people violated. The employment 
he held in Asia Minor and Pamphylia, what did it produce 
but ike iruin of those countries? — in which houses, cities, and 
temples, were robbed by him. What was his conduct in 
his praefcorship here at home 1 Let thfe plundered temples, 
and public works neglected (that he might -embezzle the 
money intended for carrying them on) boar witness. How 
dki he discharge the office of a judge 1 Let those who suf- 
fered fry his injustice answer. But his proctorship in Sicily 



Sect. III.] SPEAKING. 260 

crowns all his works of wickedness, and finishes a lasting 
monument to his infamy. The mischiefs done by him in 
that unhappy country, during the three years of his iniqui- 
tous administration, are such, that many years, under the 
wisest and best of praetors, will not be sufficient to restore 
things to the condition in which he found them ; for it is 
notorious, that, during the time of his tyranny, the Sicilians 
neither enjoyed the protection of their own original laws, 
of the regulations made for their benefit by the Roman se- 
nate upon their coming under the protection of the common- 
wealth, nor of the natural and unalienable rights of men. 
His nod has decided all causes in Sicily for these three years : 
and his decisions have broke all law, all precedent, all right. 
2 sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard-of impo- 
ms, extorted from the industrious poor, are not to be 
computed. The most faithful allies of the commonwealth 
have been treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like 
slaves, been put to death with tortures. The most atro- 
cious criminals, for money, have been exempted from the 
deserved punishments : and men of the most unexception- 
able characters condemned and banished unheard. The 
harbours, though sufficiently fortified, and the gates of 
strong towns, opened to pirates and ravagers. The soldiery 
and sailors, belonging to a province under the protection of 
the commonwealth, starved to death. Whole fleets, to the 
great detriment of the province, suffered to perish. The 
ancient monuments of either Sicilian or Roman greatness, 
the statues of heroes and princes carried off; and the tem- 
ples stripped of their images. — Having by his iniquitous 
sentences, filled the prisons with the most industrious and 
deserving of the people, he then proceeded to order num- 
pers of Roman citizens to be strangled in the gaols ; so that 
the exclamation, " I am a citizen of Rome I" which has 
often, in the most distant regions, and among the most bar- 
barous people, been a protection, was of no service to 
them ; but, on the contrary, brought a speedier and more 
severe punishment upon them. 

I ask now, Verres, what you have to advance against this 
charge ? Will you pretend to deny it ? Will you pretend, 
that any thing false, that even any thing aggravated, is al- 
leged against you ? Had any prince, or any state, committed 
the same outrage against the privilege of Roman citi- 
zens, should we not think we had sufficient ground for de- 
claring immediate war against them] What punishment 



270 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

ought then to be inflicted upon a tyrannical and wicked 
praetor, who dared, at no greater distance than Sicily, with- 
in sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous death 
of crucifixion, that unfortunate and innocent citizen, Pub- 
lius Gavius Cosanus, only for his having asserted his privi- 
lege of citizenship, and declared his intention of appeal- 
ing to the justice of his country, against a cruel oppressor, 
who had unjustly confined him in a prison, at Syracuse, 
whence he had just made his escape ? The unhappy man, 
arrested as he was going to embark for his native country, 
is brought before the wicked praetor. With eyes darting 
fury, and a countenance distorted with cruelty, he orders 
the helpless victim of his rage to be stripped, and rods to be 
brought ; accusing him, but without the least shadow of 
evidence, or even suspicion, of having come to Sicily as a 
spy. It was in vain that the unhappy man cried out, u I 
am a Roman citizen : I have served under Lucius Pretius, 
who is now at Panormus, and will attest my innocence." 
The blood-thirsty praetor, deaf to all he could urge in his 
own defence, ordered the infamous punishment to be inflict- 
ed. Thus, Fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen publicly 
mangled with scourging ; whilst the only words he uttered 
amidst his cruel sufferings were, "I am a Roman citizen 1" 
With these he hoped to defend himself from violence and in- 
famy. But of so little service was this privilege to him, that, 
while he was thus asserting his citizenship, the order was 
given for his execution — for his execution upon the cross ! 

liberty ! O sound, once delightful to every Roman 
ear ! — O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship ! — once sa- 
cred ! — now trampled upon ! — but what then ! — Is it come 
to this ? Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds 
his whole power -of the Roman people, in a Roman pro- 
vince, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture with fire, 
and redhot plates of iron, and at last put to the infamous 
death of the cross, a Roman citizen ? Shall neither the 
cries of innocence, expiring in agony, nor the tears of pity- 
ing spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman common- 
wealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain 
the licentious and wanton cruelty of a monster, who in con- 
fidence of his riches, strikes at the root of liberty, and sets 
mankind at defic&ice 1 

1 conclude with expressing my hopes, that your wisdom 
and justice, Fathers, will not, by suffering the atrocious 
and unexampled insolence of Caius Verres to escape the 



Sect. III.] SPEAKING. 271 

due punishment, leave room to apprehend the danger of a 
total subversion of authority, and introduction of general 
anarchy and confusion. 

II. — Cicero for Milo. 

MY LORDS, 

THAT you may be able the more easily to determine 
upon this point before you, I shall beg the favour of an at- 
tentive hearing, while, in a few words, I lay open the whole 
affair. — Ciodius being determined, when created praetor, 
to harass his country with every species of oppression, and 
finding the comitia had been delayed so long the year be- 
fore, that he could not hold this office many months, all on 
a sudden threw up his own year, and reserved himself to 
the next ; not from any religious scruple, but that he might 
have, as he said himself, a full, entire year for exercising 
his praetorship ; that is, for overturning the commonwealth. 
Being sensible he must be controlled and cramped in the 
exercise of his praetorian authority under Milo, who, he 
plainly saw, would be chosen consul, by the unanimous con- 
sent of the Roman people ; he joined the candidates that 
opposed Milo, but in such a manner that he overruled them 
in every thing, had the sole management of the election, and, 
as he used often to boast, bore all the comitia upon his own 
shoulders. He assembled the tribes ; he thrust himself into 
their counsels; and formed a new tribe of the most aban- 
doned of the citizens. The more confusion and disturb- 
ance he made, the more Milo prevailed. When this wretch, 
who was bent upon all manner of wickedness, saw that so 
brave a man, and his most inveterate enemy, would cer- 
tainly be consul ; w r hen he perceived this, not only by the 
discourses, but by the votes of the Roman people, he began 
to throw off all disguise, and to declare openly that Milo 
must be killed. He often intimated this in the senate, and 
declared it expressly before the people ; insomuch that 
when Favonius, that brave man, asked him what prospect 
he could have of carrying on his furious designs while Milo 
was alive — he replied, that in three or four days at most, 
he should be taken out of the way ; which reply Favonius 
immediately communicated to Cato. 

In the mean time, as soon as Ciodius knew, (nor indeed 
was there any difficulty to come at the intelligence) that 
Milo was obliged by the 18th of January to be at Lanuvi- 
urn, where ^o was dictator, in order to nominate a priest, a 



212 LESSONS IN [Part IL 

duty which the laws rendered necessary to be performed 
every year; he w r ent suddenly from Rome the day before, 
in order, as appears by the event, to waylay Milo, on his 
own grounds ; and this at a time when he was obliged to 
leave a tumultuous assembly which he had summoned that 
very day, where his presence was necessary to carry on his 
mad designs ; a thing he never would have done, if he had 
not been desirous to take the advantage of that particular 
time and place, for perpetrating his villany. But Milo, after 
having staid in the senate that day till the house was broke 
up, went home, changed his clothes, waited awhile, as 
usual, till his wife had got ready to attend him, and then 
set forward, about the time that Clodius, if he had pro- 
posed to come back to Rome that day, might have returned. 
He meets Clodius near his own estate, a little before sunset, 
and is immediately attacked by a body of men, who throw 
their darts at him from an eminence, and killed his coach- 
man. Upon which he threw oft his cloak, leaped from his 
chariot, and defended himself with great bravery. In the 
mean time, Clodius' attendants drawing their swords, some 
of them ran back to the chariot, in order to attack Milo in 
the rear ; whilst others, thinking that he was already killed, 
fell upon his servants who were behind ; these being reso- 
lute, and faithful to their master, were some of them slain ; 
whilst the rest seeing a warm engagement near the chariot, 
being prevented from going to their master's assistance, 
hearing besides from Clodius himself, that Milo was killed, 
and believing it to be a fact, acted upon this occasion, (1 
mention it not with a view to elude the accusation, but be- 
cause it was the true state of the case) without the orders, 
without the knowledge, without the presence of their mas- 
ter, as every man would wish his own servants should act 
in the like circumstances. 

This, my Lords, is a faithful account of the matter of fact ; 
the person who lay in wait was himself overcome, and force 
subdued by force, or rather audaciousness chastised by true 
valour. I say nothing of the advantage which accrues to 
the state in general, to yourselves in particular, and to all 
good men : I am content to wave the argument I might 
draw from hence in favour of my client, whose destiny was 
so peculiar, that he could not secure his own safety, without 
securing yours, and that of the republic, at the same time. 
If he could not do it lawfully, there is no room for attempt- 
ing his defence. But, if reason teaches the learned, neces- 



Sect. III.] SPEAKING. 273 

sity the barbarian, common custom all nations in general, 
and even nature itself instructs the brutes to defend their 
bodies, limbs and lives when attacked, by all possible me- 
thods, you cannot pronounce this action criminal, without 
determining at the same time, that whoever falls into the. 
hands of a highwayman, must of necessity perish either by 
the sword, or your decision. Had Milo been of this opin- 
ion, he would certainly have chosen to have fallen by the 
hand of Clod 'tis, who had more than once before this made 
an attempt \\ s f& his life, rather than be executed by your 
order, bet ft^^ he had not tamely yielded himself a victim 
to his rage. Btit if none of you are of this opinion, the 
proper question is, not whether Clodius was killed ; for that 
we grant : but whether justly or unjustly. If it appear that 
Milo was the aggressor, we ask no favour ; but if Clodius, 
5 ou will then acquit him of the crime that has been laid to- 
his charge. 

What method, then* can we take, to prove that Clodius 
lay in wait for Milo ? It is sufficient, considering what . 
an audacious abandoned wretch he was, to show that he 
Jay under a strong temptation to it, that he formed great 
hopes, and proposed to himself great advantages, from 
\s death. By Milo's death, Clodius would not only 
I his point of being pra&tor, without that restraint 

icb his adversary's power, as consul, would have laid 

ked designs, but likewise that of being praetor 

:ose consuls, by whose connivance, at least, if not 

a-sisianee. he hoped he should be able to betray the state 

into the mad schemes he had been forming ; persuading 

himself, that, as they thought themselves under so great 

obligation to him, they would have no inclination to op- 
pose any of his attempts, even if they should have it in 
their power : and that, if they were inclined to do it, they 
would, perhaps, be scarce able to control the most profli- 
gate of all men, who had been confirmed and hardened in 
his audaciousness, by a long series of villanies. 

3 is so far from receiving any benefit from Clodius" 
death, that he is really a sufferer by it. But it may be said, 
that hatred prevailed, that anger and resentment urged him 
on. that he avenged his own wrongs, and redressed his own 
grievances. Now, if all these particulars maybe applied, 
not merely with greater propriety to Clodius than to Milo, 
but with the utmost propriety to the one, and not the least 
to the other ; what more can you desire 1 For why should 



£74 LESSORS IN [Part IT. 

Milo bear any other hatred to Clodius, who furnished him 
wilh such a rich harvest of glory, but that which every pat- 
riot mast tear to all bad men ? As to Clodius, he had mo- 
tives enough ibr hearing ill will to Ivliio ; tirst, as my pro- 
tector and guardian ; then, as the opposer of his mad schemes, 
and the controller of his armed force ; and, lastly, as his 
accuser. 

Every circumstance, my Lords, concurs to prove, that it 
was lor Milo's interest, Clodius should live^that, on the 
contrary, Milo's death was a most desirable < iQ ^ ml for an- 
swering the purposes of Clodius • that, ojj ]^ m - one side, 
there was a most implacable hatred ; on the outer, not the 
least ; that the one had been continually employing himself 
in acts of violence, the other only in opposing them; that 
the life of Milo was threatened, and his death publicly fore- 
told by Clodius ; whereas nothing of that kind was ever 
heard from Milo ; that the day fixed for Milo's journey, 
was well known by his adversary ; while Milo knew not 
. when Clodius was to return ; that Milo's journey was neces- 
sary, but that of Clodius rather the contrary ; that the one 
openly declared his intention of leaving Rome that day, 
while the other concealed his intention of returning ; that 
Milo made no alteration in his measures, but that Clodius 
feigned an excuse, for altering his ; that if Milo had designed 
to waylay Clodius, he would have waited for him near the 
city, till it was dark : but that Clodius, even if he had been 
under no apprehensions from Milo, ought to have been 
afraid of coming to town so late at night. 

Let us now consider, whether the place where thej r en- 
countered, was most favourable to Milo or to Clodius. But 
can there, my Lords, be any room for doubt, or deliberation 
upon that ? It was near the estate of Clodius, where at 
least a thousand able-bodied men were employed in his mad 
schemes of building. Did Milo think he should have em 
advantage by attacking him from an eminence, and did he, 
for this reason, pitch upon that spot, for the engagement ; 
or, was he not rather expected in that place by his adver- 
sary, who hoped the situation would favour his assault ? The 
thing, my Lords, speaks for itself, which must be allowed to 
be of the greatest importance in determining the question. 
Were the affair to be represented only by painting, instead 
of being expressed by words, it would even then clearly ap- 
pear which was the traitor, and which was free from all 
mischievous designs ; when the one was sitting in his cha- 



Sect. III.] SPEAKING. 275 

riot, muffied up in his cloak, and his wife along with him. 
Which of these circumstances was not a very great encum- 
brance ? — the dress, the chariot, or the companion ? How 
could he be worse equipped for an engagement, when he 
was wrapped up in a cloak, embarrassed with a chariot, and 
almost fettered by his wife ? Observe the other, now, in the 
first place, sallying out on a sudden from his seat : For 
what reason ? In the evening, what urged him ? late, to 
what purpose, especially at that season ? He calls at Pcm- 
pey's seat ; With what view ? To see Pompey ? He knew 
he was at Alsium : -To see his house ? He had been at it a 
thousand times. What, then, could be the reason of his loi- 
tering and shifting about ? Pie wanted to be upon the sppt 
when Miio came up. 

But if, my Lords, you are not yet convinced, though the 
thing shines out with such strong and full evidence, that 
Milo returned to Rome with an innocent mind, unstained 
w T ith guilt, undisturbed by fear, and free from the accusa- 
tions of conscience ; call to mind, I beseech you, by the im- 
mortal gods, the expedition with which he came back, his 
entrance into the forum while the senate house was in flames. 
the greatness of soul he discovered, the look he assumed, 
the speech he made on the occasion. He delivered himseh 
up, not only to the people, but even to the senate ; nor to 
the senate alone, but even to guards appointed for the 
public security : nor merely to them, but even to the au- 
thority of him whom the senate had intrusted with the 
care of the whole republic ; to whom he never would have 
delivered himself, if he had not been confident of the good^ 
ness of his cause. 

What now remains, but to beseech and adjure you, my 
Lords, to extend that compassion to a brave man, which he 
disdains to implore, but which I, even against his consent, 
implore and earnestly entreat. Though you have not seen 
him shed a single tear, while all are weeping around him, 
though he has preserved the same steady countenance, the 
same firmness of voice and language, do not, on this ac- 
count, withhold it from him. 

On you, on you I call, ye heroes, who have lost so much 
blood in the service of your country ! To you, ye centuri- 
ons, ye soldiers, I appeal, in this hour of danger to the best 
of men, and bravest of citizens ! While you are looking on, 
while you stand here with arms in your hands, and g4ard 
this tribunal, ajiall virtue like this be expelled, extermi- 



276 LESSONS INT [Part II. 

nated, cast out with dishonour ? By the immortal gods, I 
wish' (pardon me, O my country ! for I fear, what I shall 
say, out of a pious regard for Miio, may be deemed impiety 
against thee) that Clodius not only lived, bat were praetor, 
-consul, dictator, rather than be witness to such a scene as 
this. Shall this man, then, who was born to save his coun- 
try, die. any where but in his country? Shall he not, at 
least, die in the service of his country? Will you retain 
the memorials of his gallant soul, and deny his body a grave 
in Itaiy ? Will any person give his voice for banishing a man 
from this city, whom every city on earth would be proud 
to receive within its walls? Happy the country that shall 
receive him ! Ungrateful this, if it shall banish him ! Wretch- 
ed, if it should lose him ! But I must conclude — my tears 
will not allow me to proceed, and Milo forbids tears to be 
employed in his defence. You, my Lords, I beseech and 
adjure, that, in your decision, you would dare t< act as you 
think. Trust me, your fortitude, your just : : . > your fideli- 
ty, will more especially be approved of by him, (Pompey^ 
who, in bis choice of judges, has raised to the bench, the 
bravest, the wisest, and the best ot men. 



SECTION IV. 
SPEECHES ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS: 

I. — Romulus to the Veople of Rome 9 after building the City* 
IF ail the strength of cities lay in the height of their ram- 
parts, or che depth of their ditches, we should have great 
reason to be in fear for that which we have now built. But 
are there in reality any walls too high to be scaled by a 
valiant enemy ? And of what use are ramparts in intestine 
divisions ? They may serve tor a defence against sudden 
incursions from abroad ; but it is by courage and prudence, 
chiefly, that the invasions of foreign enemies are repelled; 
and by unanimity, sobriety, and justice, f hat domestic sedi- 
tions are prevented. Cities fortified by the strongest bul- 
warks, have been often seen to yield to force from with- 
out, or to tumults from within* An exact military discipline, 
and a steady observance of civil polity, are the surest bar- 
riers against these evils. 

But there is still another point of great importance to be 
considered. The prosperity of some rising colonies, and the 



Sect. IV.] SPEA&IN& 277 

speedy ruin of others, have, in a great measure, teen owing 
to their form of government. Were there but one man- 
ner of ruling states and cities, that could mate them hap- 
py, the choice would not he difficult. But I have learnt, 
that, of the various forms of government among the Greeks 
and Barbarians, there are three which are 'highly extolled 
by those who have experienced them ; and yet* that no one 
of these is in ail respects perfect, but each of them lias 
some innate and incurable defect. Choose you, then, in 
what manner this city shall be governed. Shall it be by 
one man ? Shall it by a select number of the wisest among" 
us? Or shall the legislative power be in the people? As 
for me, I shall submit to whatever form of achriinistration, 
you shall please to establish. As 1 think myself not un- 
worthy to command, so neither am I unwilling to obey. 
Your having chosen me to be the leader of this colony, and 
your calling the city after my name, are honours sufficient 
to content me ; honours of which, living or dead, I can 
never be deprived. 

II. — Hannibal to Scipio Africanus* at their interview preceding 
the Battle of Zama. 

SINCE fate has so ordained it. that I, who began the 
war, and who have been so often on the point of ending it 
by a complete conquest, should now come of my own mo- 
tion, to ask a peace — I am glad that it is of you, Scipio, 1 
have the fortune to ask i f . Nor will this be among the 
least of your glories, that Hannibal, victorious over so many 
Roman generals, submitted at last to you. 

I could wish, that our fathers, and we had confined our 
ambition within the limits which nature seems to have pre- 
scribed to it ; the shores of Africa, and the shores of Italy* 
The gods did not give us that mind. On both sides we have 
been so eager after foreign possessions, as to put our own 
to the hazard of war. Rome and Carthage have had, each 
in her turn, the enemy at her gates. But since errors pa£t 
may be more easily blamed than corrected, let it now be 
the work of you and me, to put an end, if possible, to the 
obstinate contention. For my own part, my years, and the 
experience I have had of the instability of fortune, incline 
me to leave nothing to her determination, which reason car* 
decide. But much, I fear, Scipio, that your youth, your 
want of the like experience, your uninterrupted success, 
may render you averse from the thoughts of peace. He, 
Aa 



m LESSONS IN [Part II. 

whom fortune lias never failed, rarely reflects upon her in- 
constancy. Yet, without recurring to former examples, my 
own may perhaps suffice to teach you moderation. I am 
the same Hannibal, who, after my victory at Cannse, be- 
came master of the greatest part of your country, and deli- 
berated with myself what fate ■ I should decree to Italy and 
Rome. And now-— see the change ! Here, in Africa, I am 
come to treat with a Roman, for my own preservation and 
my country's. Such are the sports of fortune. Is she then 
to be trusted because she smiles ? An advantageous peace 
Is preferable to the hope of victory. The one is in your 
own power, the other is at the pleasure of the gods. Should 
you prove Victorious, it would add little to your own glory, 
or the glory of your country ; if vanquished, you lose in 
One hour, all the honour and reputation you have been so 
many years acquiring. But w T hat is my aim in ail this ? 
That you should content yourself with our cession of Spain, 
Sicily, Sardinia, and ail the islands between Italy and 
Africa. A peace on these conditions, will, in my opinion, 
not only secure the future tranquillity of Carthage, but be 
sufficiently glorious for you, and for the Roman name. And 
do not tell me, that some of our citizens dealt fraudulently 
with you in the late treat} r . — It is I, Hannibal, that new 
ask a peace : — I ask it, because I think it expedient for 
my country; and thinking it expedient, I will inviolably 
maintain it. 

III. — $ tiptoes Reply. 
'i I KNEW very well, Hannibal, that it was the hope of 
jour return, which emboldened the Carthage mans to break 
the truce with us, and to lay aside all thoughts of peace, 
when it was just upon the point of being concluded ; and 
your present proposal is a proof of it. You retrench from 
their concessions, every thing but what we are, and have 
l>een long possessed of. But as it is your care, that your 
fellow-citizens should have the obligation to you, of being 
cased from a great part of their burthen, so it ought to be 
mine, that they draw no advantage from their perridious- 
ness. Nobody is more sensible than I am of the weakness 
of man, and the power of fortune, and that whatever we 
enterprise, is subject to a thousand chances. If, before the 
Romans passed into Africa, you had, of your own accord, 
quitted Italy, and made the offers you now make, I believe 
thev would not have been rejected, But, as you have beea 



Sect. IV.] SPEAKING, 27* 

forced out of Italy, and we are masters here of the open 
country, the situation of things is much altered. And what 
is chiefly to be considered, the Carthaginians, by the late 
treaty, which we entered into at their request, were, over 
an I hat you offer, to have restored to us our prison* 

ers without ransom, delivered up their ships cf war, paid 
us live thousand talents, and to have given hostages for tha 
performance of all. The senate accepted these conditions, 
hut Carthage failed on her part: Carthage deceived us. 
What then is to be done ? Are the Carthaginians to be 
released from the most important articles of the treaty, as 
a reward for their breach of faith ? No, 'certainly. If to the 
conditions before agreed upon, you had added some new 
articles, to our advantage, there would have been matter o^ 
reference to the Roman people ; but when, instead of ad- 
ding, you retrench, there is no room for deliberation. The. 
Carthagenians, therefore, must submit to us at discretion, 
or must vanquish us in battle. 

IV. — Calisthenes** Reproof of CJcoivs Flattery to Alexander, 

on whom he had proposed to confer Divinity by vote. 

IF the king were present, Cleon, there would be no 
need of my answering to what you have just proposed. II© 
would himself reprove you, for endeavouring to draw him 
into an imitation of foreign absurdities, and for bringing 

r y upon him by such unmanly flattery. As he is absent, 
I take upon me to tell you. in his name, that no praise Is 
lasting, but what is rational; and that, you do what you 
can to lessen his glory, instead of adding to It. Heroes 
have never, among us, been deified, till after their death ; 
and, whatever may be your way of thinking, Cleon. for my 
part, I wish the king may not, for many years to come, ob- 
tain that honour. 

Y ou have mentioned, as precedents of what yon propose, 
Hercules and Bacchus. Do you imagine, Cleon, that they 
were deified over a cup of wine ? And are you and I quali- 
fied to make gods ? Is the king, our sovereign, to receive 
his divinity from you and me, who are his subjects? First 
try your power, whether you can make a king. It is sure- 
ly easier to make a king, than a god ; to give an earthly 
.union, than a throne in heaven. I only wish that the 
gods may hate heard, without offence, the arrogant pro- 
posal you have made, of adding one to their number, and 
that they may still be so propitious to us ? as to grant the 



260 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

continuance of that success to our affairs, with which they 
nave hitherto favoured us. For my part, I am not ashamed 
%>f my country, nor do I approve of our adopting the rites 
of foreign' nations, or learning from them how we ought to 
reverence our kings. To receive laws or rules of conduct 

from them, what is it hut to confess ourselves inferior to 

them? 

V. — Cains Marins to the Romans ; showing the absurdity of 
their hesitating to confer on him the rank of general, merely 
en account of his extraction. 

IT is but too common, my countrymen, to observe a 
material difference between the behaviour of those who 
stand candidates for places of power and trust, before and 
after their obtaining them. They solicit them in one man- 
ner, and execute them in another. They set out with a 
great appearance of activity, humility,, and moderation, and 
they quickly fall into sloth, pride, and avarice. — It is, un- 
doubtedly, no easy matter to discharge, to the general sa- 
tisfaction, the duty of a supreme commander, in trouble- 
some times. To carry on with effect, an expensive w r ar, 
and yet be frugal of public money ; to oblige those to serve, 
whom it may be delicate to offend ; to conduct at the same 
time, a complicated variety of operations ; to concert mea* 
sures at home, answerable to the state of things abroad ; 
and to gain every valuable end, in spite of opposition from 
the envious, the factious, and the disaffected — to do ail this, 
my countrymen, is more difficult than is generally thought. 

But, besides the disadvantages which are common to me, 
with all others in eminent stations, my case is, in this re- 
spect, peculiarly hard— that whereas a commander of Patri- 
cian rank, if he is guilty of neglect or breach of duty, ha* 
Lis great connexions, the antiquity of his family, the im- 
portant services of his ancestors, and the multitudes he has, 
hy power, engaged in his interest, to screen him from con- 
dign punishment, my whole safety depends upon myself; 
which renders it the more indispensably necessary for me to 
lake care, that my conduct be clear and unexceptionable. 
Besides, I am well aware, my countrymen, that the eye of 
the public is upon me ; and that, though the impartial, 
who prefer the real advantage of the commonwealth to all 
other considerations, favour my pretensions, the Patricians 
want nothing so much, as an occasion against me. It is, 
therefore; my fixed resolution to use my best endeavours. 



Sect. IV.] SPEAKING. 281 

that you be not disappointed in me, and that their indirect 
designs against me may be defeated. 

I have from my youth, been familiar with toils and with 
dangers. I was faithful to your interest, my countrymen, 
when I served you for no reward but that of honour. It is 
not my design to betray yon, now that }^ou have conferred 
upon me a place of profit. You have committed to my con- 
duct, the war against Jugurtha. The Patricians are offend- 
ed at this. But where would be the wisdom of giving such 
a command to one of their honourable body ? A person of 
illustrious birth, of ancient family, of innumerable statues—- 
but of no experience! What service would his long line 
of dead ancestors, or his multitude of motionless statues do 
his country in the da} r of battle ? What could such a gene- 
ral do, but in his trepidation and inexperience, have re- 
course to some inferior commander for direction, in difficul- 
ties to which he was not himself equal ? Thus, your Patri- 
cian general would, in fact, have a general over him ; so 
that the acting commander w r ouid still be a Plebeian. So 
true is this, my countrymen, that I have, myself, known 
those who have been chosen consuls, begin then to read 
the history of their own country, of which, till that time, 
they were totally ignorant; that is, they first obtained the 
employment, and then bethought themselves of the qualifi- 
cations necessary for the proper discharge of it. 

I submit to your judgment, Romans, on which side the 
advantage lies, when a comparison is made between Patri- 
cian haughtiness and Plebeian experience. The veiy actions 
which they have only read, I have partly seen and partly 
myself achieved. What they know by reading, I know by 
action. They are pleased to slight my mean birth : I despise 
their mean characters. Want of birth and fortune is the ob- 
jection against me; want of personal worth against them. 
But are not all men of the same species? What can make 
a difference between one man and another, but the endow- 
ments of the mind ? For my part I shall always look upon 
the bravest man, as the noblest man. Suppose it were in- 
quired of the fathers of such Patricians as Albinus and Bes- 
tia, whether, if they had their choice, they would desire 
sons of their character or of mine : What would they an- 
swer, but that they would wish the worthiest to be their 
sons ? If the Patricians have reason to despise me, let them 
likewise depise their ancestors, whose nobility was the fruit 
of their virtue. Do they envy the honours bestowed upon 
Aa2 — * ^ ' 



282 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

me 1 let them envy, likewise, my labours, my abstinence, and 
the dangers I have undergone for my country, by which I 
have acquired them. But those worthless men lead such a 
life of inactivity, as if they despised any honours you can 
bestow; whilst they aspire to honours as if they had deserv- 
ed them by the most industrious virtue. They lay claim 
to the rewards of activity, for their having enjoyed the 
pleasures of luxury. Yet none can be more lavish than 
they are in praise of their ancestors. And they imagine 
they honour themselves by celebrating their forefathers ; 
whereas they do the very contrary ; for, as much as their 
ancestors were distinguished for their virtues, so much are 
they disgraced by their vices. The glory of ancestors casts 
a light, indeed, upon, their posterity ; but it only serves to 
show what the descendants are. It alike exhibits to pub- 
lic view, their degeneracy and their worth. I own, I can- 
not boast of the deeds of my forefathers ; but I hope I may 
answer the cavils of the Patricians, by standing up in de- 
fence of what I have myself done. 

Observe now T , my countrymen, the injustice of the Patri- 
cians. They arrogate to themselves honours, on account of 
the exploits done by their forefathers, whilst they will not 
allow me the due praise, for performing the very same sort 
of actions in my own person. He has no statues, they cry, 
of his family. He can trace no venerable line of ancestors. 
What then ? Is it matter of more praise to disgrace one's 
illustrious ancestors, than to become illustrious by one's 
own good behaviour? What if I can show no statues of my 
family ! I can show the standards, the armour, and the trap- 
pings, which I have myself taken from the vanquished: I 
can show the scars of those wounds which I have received 
by facing the enemies of my country. These are my sta- 
tues. These are the honours I boast of. Not left me by 
Inheritance, as theirs ; but earned by toil, by abstinence, by 
valour ; amidst clouds of dust and seas of blood ; scenes of 
action, where those erTeminate Patricians, who endeavour, 
by indirect means, to depreciate me in your esteem, have 
never dared to show their faces. 

VI. — Speech of Publius Scipio to the Roman Army r before 
the Battle of Ticin. 

WERE you, Soldiers, the same army which I had with 
me in Gaul, I might well forbear saying any thing to you 
at this time : for what occasion could there be to use exhor* 



Si*t. IV.] SPEAKING. 283 

tat ion to a cavalry that had so signally vanquished the 
squadrons of the enemy upon the Rhone ; or to legions, hy 
whom that same enemy, flying before them to avoid a bat- 
tle, did in effect, confess themselves conquered ? But as 
these troops, having been enrolled for Spain, are there with 
my brother Cneius, making war under my auspices, (as 
was the will of the senate and people of Rome,) I, that you 
might have a consul for your captain against Hannibal 
and the Carthagenians, have freely offered myself for this 
w r ar. You then, have a new general, and I a new army. 
On this account, a few words from me to you will be nei- 
ther improper nor unseasonable. 

That you may not be unapprised of what sort of enemies 
you are going to encounter, or what is to be feared from 
them, they are the very same, whom, in a former war, 
you vanquished both by land and sea; the same from whom 
you took Sicily and Sardinia, and who have been these 
twenty years your tributaries. You will not, I presume, 
march against these men with only that courage with which 
you are wont to face other enemies : but with a certain an- 
ger and indignation, such as you would feel if }'0u saw your 
slaves on a sudden rise up in arms against you. Conquer- 
ed and enslaved, it is not boldness, but necessity, that 
urges them to battle ; unless you could believe that those 
who avoided fighting when their army was entire, have 
acquired better hope by the loss of two thirds of their horse 
and foot in the passage of the Alps. 

But you have heard, perhaps, that though they are few 
in number, they are men of stout hearts and robust bodies: 
heroes of such strength and vigour, as nothing is able to 
resist — Mere effigies ! Nay, shadows of men ; wretches 
emaciated with hunger,* and benumbed with coldl bruised 
and battered to pieces among the rocks and craggy cliffs ! 
— their weapons broken, and their horses weak and foun- 
dered! Such are the cavalry, and such the infantry with 
which you are going to contend ; not enemies, but the frag- 
ments of enemies. There is nothing which I more appre- 
hend, than that it will be thought Hannibal was vanquished 
by the Alps, before we had any conflict with him : but per- 
haps, it was fitting it should be so ; and that, with a peo- 
ple and a leader who had violated leagues and covenants, 
the gods themselves, without man's help, should begin the 
war, and bring it to a near conclusion ; and that we, who, 
next to the gods, have been injured and offended, should 
frappily finish what thev have begun. 



284 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

I need not be in any fear, that you should suspect me of 
saying these thing's merely to encourage you, while inward- 
ly I have a different sentiment. What hindered me from 
going into Spain ? That was my province, where I should 
have had the less dreaded Asdrubal, not Hannibal, to deal 
with. But hearing, as I passed along the coast of Gaul, of 
this enemy's march, I landed my. troops, sent my horse 
forward, and pitched my camp upon the Rhone. A part of 
my cavalry encountered and defeated that of the enemy. 
My infantry not being able to overtake theirs, which fled be- 
fore us, I returned to my fleet ; and with all the expedition 
I could use in so long a voyage by sea and land, am come 
to meet them at the foot of the Alps. Was it, then, my in- 
clination to avoid a contest with this tremendous Hannibal ? 
and have I met with him only by accident and unawares ? 
or am I come on purpose to challenge him to the combat? 
I would gladly try, whether the earth, within these twen- 
ty years, has brought forth a new kind of Carthagenians ; 
or whether they be the same sort of men w ho fought at the 
iEgates, and whom at Eryx, you suffered to redeem them- 
selves at eighteen denarii per head: whether this Hannibal, 
for labours and journeys, be, as he would be thought, the 
rival of Hercules ; or whether he be, what his father left 
him, a tributary, a vassal, a slave to the Reman people. 
Did not the consciousness of his wicked deed at Saguntum 
torment him and make him desperate, he would have some 
regard, if not to his conquered country, yet surely to his 
own family, to his father's memory, to the treaty written 
with Amilcar's own hand. We might have starved him in 
Eryx ; we might have passed into Africa with our victori- 
ous fleet, and in a few days, .have destroyed Carthage. At 
their humble supplication, we pardoned them ; we releas- 
ed them, when they were closely shut up without a possi- 
bility of escaping; we made peace with them when they 
were conquered. When they were distressed by the Af- 
rican war, we considered them, we treated them as a peo- 
ple under our protection. And what is the return they 
make us for all these favours ? Under the conduct of a hair- 
brained young man, they come hither to. overturn our state, 
and lay waste our country. — I could wish, indeed, that it 
were not so ; and that the war we are now engaged in, con- 
cerned only our own glory, and not our preservation. But 
the contest at present, is not for the possession of Sicily and 
Sardinia, but of Italy itself : nor is there behind us ana- 



Sect. IV.] SPEAKING. 285 

ther army, which, if we should not prove the conquerors; 
may make head against our victorious enemies. There are 
1:0 more Alps for them to pass, which might give us leisure 
to raise new forces. No, Soldiers ; here you must make 
your stand, as if you were just now before the walls of Rome* 
Let every one reflect, that he has now to defend, not only 
his own person, but his wife, his children, his helpless 
infants. Yet, let not private considerations alone possess 
our minds:, let us remember that the eyes of the seriate and 
people of Rome are upon us : ana that, as our force and 
courage shall now prove, such will be the fortune of that 
city and of the Roman empire. 

VII. — Speech of Hannibal io the Cathagcnian Army* on the 
same occasion. 

I KNOW not, Soldiers, whether } r ou or your prisoners 
be encompassed by fortune with the stricter bonds and ne- 
cessities. Two seas enclose you on the right and left; not a 
ship to fly to for escaping. Before } r ou is the Po, a river 
broader and more rapid than the Rhone ; behind you are the 
Alps ; over which, even when ^/our numbers were undimi- 
nished, you were hardly able to force a passage. Here then, 
soldiers, you must either conquer or die, the very rirst hour 
you meet the enemy. 

But the same fortune which has thus laid you under the 
necessity of righting, has set before your eyes the most glo- 
rious reward of victory. Should we, by our valour, recover 
only Sicily and Sardinia, which were ravished from our fa- 
thers, those would be no inconsiderable prizes. Yet, what 
are those ? The wealth of Rome ; whatever riches she has 
heaped together in the spoils of nations ; all these, with the 
masters of them, will be }'ours. The time is now come to 
reap the full recompense of } r our toilsome marches, over so 
many mountains an 3 rivers, and through so many nations, all 
of them in arms. This is the place which fortune has ap- 
pointed to be the limits of your labour ; it is here that you 
will finish your glorious warfare, and receive an ample re- 
compense of your completed service. For I would not 
have you imagine, that victor}' will be as difficult as the name 
of a Roman war is great and sounding. It has often hap- 
pened, that a despised enemy has given a bloody battle ; and 
the most renowned kings and nations have by a small force 
been overthrown. And, if you but take away the glitter of 
the Roman name, what is there wherein they may stand in 



286 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

competition with you 1 For (to say nothing of your service 
in war, for twenty years together, with so much valour 
and success) from the very pillars of Hercules, i>om the 
ocean, from the utmost hounds of the earth, through so 
many warlike nations of Spam and Gaud, are jcu not cone 
hither victorious? And with, whom are you now to fight? 
With r^w soldiers, an un discipline d army, beaten, vanquish- 
ed, hesieged by the Gauls the very last summer; an army 
unknown to their leader, and unacquainted with him. 

Or shall I, who was born, I'might almost say, but cer- 
tainly brought up, in the tent of my father, that most ex- 
cellent general ; shall I, the conquerer of Spain and Gaul, 
and not only of the Alpine nations, but, which is greater 
still, of the Alps themselves ; shall I compare myself with 
this half-year's captain ? a captain, before whom should one 
place the two armies without their ensigns, I am persuaded 
he wouPi not know to which of them he is consul. 1 esteem 
it no snrall advantage, Soldiers, that there is not one among 
you, who has not often been an eye-witness of my exploits 
in war ; not one, of whose valour I myself have not been a 
spectator, so as to be able to name the times and places of 
his noble achievements ; that with soldiers, whom I have 
a thousand times praised and rewarded, and whose pupil 1 
was before I became their general, I shall march against an 
army of men strangers to one another. . 

On what side soever 1 turn my eyes, I behold all full of 
courage and strength. A veteran infantry: a most gallant 
cavalry: you, my Allies, most faithful ajid valiant; you, 
Car triage nians ? whom npt only your country's cause, but. 
thejustest anger impels to battle. - The hope, the courage 
of assailants, is always greater than of those who act upon 
the defensive. With hostile banners displayed, you are 
come down upon Italy : you bring the war. Grief, injuries, 
indignities, lire your minds, and spur you forward io re- 
venge. First, they demand me, that I, your general, should 
he delivered up to f hem ; next, all of you who had fought 
at the siege of Saguntum : and we were to be put to death 
by the extremes! tortures^ Prom' and cruel nation ! Every 
thing must be yours, and at your disposal ! ion are to pre- 
scribe to us with whom we shall make war, with whom we 
shall make peace ! You are to set us bcimds ; to shut us up 
within hills ar '■ iv* rs ; but you, you are not to observe the 
limits which yourseh es ha ve fixed ! u Pass not the Iberus." 
What next ? " Touch not the Saguntines : Saguntum is 



Sect. IV.] SPEAKING. 287 

>n the Iberus, move not a step towards that city." Is it 
a small matter, then, that yon have deprived ns of our au- 
nt possessions, Sicily and Sardinia 1 You would have 
Spain too. Well ; we shall yield Spain, and then — you 
will pass into Africa. Will pass, did I say 7 — This very 
year they ordered one of their consuls into Africa, the other 
into Spain. No, Soldiers ; there is nothing left for us hut 
what we can vindicate with our swords. Come on, then. 
Be men. The Romans may, with more safety, be cowards.: 
they have their own country behind them, have places of 
refuge to fly to, and are secure from danger in the reads 
thither; but for you, there is no noddle fortune between 
death and victory. Let this he but well fixed in your 
minds — and. once again, I say you are conquerors. 

VIII.— Speec/i of Adherbal to the Roman Senate, imploring 
their assistance against Jiiguriiia. 

FATHERS ! 

IT is known to you. that king Micipsa, my father, on 
his death-bed, left in charge to Jugurtha, his adopted son, 
conjunctly with my unfortunate brother,- Hiempsal, and my- 
self, the children of his own holy, the administration of the 
kingdom of INumidia, directing us to consider the senate 
and people of Rome as proprietors of it. He charged ns 
to use our b st endeavours to be serviceable to the Roman 
commonwealth, in peace and war: assuring us, that your 
protection would prove to us a defence against all enemies f 
and would be instead of armies, fortifications, and treasures. 

' Virile my brother and I were thinking of nothing bat 
how to regulate ourselves according to the directions of our 
deceased father — Jugurtha — the most infamous of man- 
kind !• — breaking through all ties of gratitude and of com- 
mon bumaoity, and trampling on the authority of the Ro- 
man commonwealth, procured the murder of my unfortu- 
nate brother, and has driven me from my throne and native 
country, though he knows I inherit, from my grandfather 
dnissa, and lyy father Micipsa, the friendship and alli- 
ance of the Romans. 

For a prince to be reduced, by villany, to my distressful 
circumstances, is calamity enough ; but my misfortunes are 
heightened by -he Consjide ration — that I rind myself obliged 
to solicit your assistance, Fathers, for the services done you 
by my ancestors, not for any 1 have been able to render you 
in my own person, Jugurtha has put it out of my powey 



2U LESSONS m [Part II 

to deserve any thing at your hands ; and has forced me to 
be burdensome, before I could be useful to you. And yet, 
if I had no plea, but my undeserved misery — a once power- 
ful prince, the descendant of a race of illustrious monarchs, 
now, without any fault of my own, destitute of every sup- 
port, and reduced to the necessity of begging 4 foreign assist- 
ance, against an enemy who has seized my throne and my 
kingdom — if my unequalled distresses were all I had to 
plead- — it would become the greatness of the Roman com- 
monwealth, the arbitress of the world, to protect the injur- 
ed, and to check the triumph of daring wickedness over 
helpless innocence. — -But, to provoke your vengeance to the 
utmost, Jugurtha has driven me from the very dominions 
which the senate and the people of Rome gave to my ances- 
tors ; and from which my grandfather, and my father, un- 
der your umbrage, expelled Syphax and the Carthagenians. 
Thus, Fathers, your kindness to our family is defeated ; 
and Jugurtha, in injuring me, throws contempt on } r ou. 

O wretched prince I O cruel reverse of fortune ! O father 
Micipsa ! is this the consequence of your generosity; that 
be whom your goodness raised to an equality with your own 
children, should be the murderer of your children ? Must 
then the royal house of Numidia always be a scene of havock 
and blood ? While Carthage remained, we suffered, as was 
to be expected, all sorts of hardships from their hostile at- 
tacks ; our enemy near ; our only powerful ally, the Roman 
commonwealth, at a distance. While we were so circum- 
stanced, we were always in arms and in action. When that 
scourge of Africa was no more, we congratulated ourselves 
on the prospect of established peace. But instead of peace, 
behold the kingdom of Numidia drenched with royal blood ! 
and the only surviving son of its late king, flying from an 
adopted murderer, and seeking that safety in foreign parts, 
which he cannot command in his own kingdom. 
■ Whither— Oh ! whither shall I fly ? If I return to the 
royal palace of my ancestors, my father's throne is seized 
by the murderer of my brother. What can I there expec% 
but that Jugurtha should hasten to imbrue, in my blood, 
those hands which are now reeking with my brother's ? If 
I were to fly for refuge, or assistance, to any other court, 
from what prince can 1 hope for protection, if the Roman 
commonwealth giye me up ? From my own family or 
friends- 1 have no expectations. My royal father is no more. 
He is beyond the reach of violence, gnd out of hearing- of the 



Sect. IV.] LEAKING. 289 

complaints of his unhappy son. Were my brother alive, 
our mutual sympathy would be some alleviation. But he is 
hurried out of life, m his early youth, by the very hand 
which should have been the last to injure any of the royal 
family of Numidia. The bloody Jugurtha has butchered 
all whom he suspected to be in my interest. Some have 
been destroyed by the lingering torment of the cross. 
Others have been given a prey to wild beasts, and their an- 
guish made the sport of men more cruel than wild beasts. 
IF there be any yet alive, they are shut up in dungeons, 
there to drag out a life more intolerable than death itself. 

Look down, illustrious senators of Rome ! from that 
height of power to which you are raised, on the unexam- 
pled distresses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a wick- 
ed intruder, become an outcast from all mankind. Let not 
the crafty insinuations of him who returns murder for .adop- 
tion, prejudice your judgment. Do not listen to the wretch 
who hasj butchered the son and relations of a king, who 
gave him power to sit on the same throne with his own sons. 
I have been informed, that he labours by his emissaries, 
to prevent your determining any thing against him in his 
absence ; pretending that I magnify my distress, and might 
for him have staid in peace in my own kingdom. But if 
ever the time comes when the due vengeance from above 
shall overtake him, he will then tremble as I do. Then 
he, who now, hardened in wickedness, triumphs over those 
whom his violence has laid low, will, in his turn, feel dis- 
tress, and suffer for his impious ingratitude to my father, 
and his blood-thirsty cruelty to my brother. 

O murdered, butchered brother ! O dearest to my heart 
— now gone for ever from my sight ! — But why should I 
lament his death 1 He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed 
light of heaven, of life, and kingdom, at once, by the very 
person who ought to have been the first to hazard his own 
life in defence of any one of Micipsa's family. But, as 
things are, my brother is not so much deprived of these 
comforts, as delivered from terror, from flight, from exile, 
and the endless train of miseries which render life to me a 
burden. He lies full low, gored with wounds, and fester- 
ing in his own blood. But he lies in peace. He feels none of 
the miseries which rend my soul with agony and distraction, 
while I am set up a spectacle to all mankind of the uncer- 
tainty of human affairs. So far from haVing it in my pow- 
er to revenge his death, I am not master of the means ofj 
B b 



290 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

securing my own life. So far from being in a condition to 
defend my kingdom from the violence of the usurper, I am 
obliged to apply for foreign protection for my own person. 
Fathers ! Senators of Home ! The arbiters of the world ! 
to you I fly for refuge from the murderous fury of Jugur- 
tha. By your affection for your children, by your love for 
your country, by your own virtues, by the majesty of the 
Roman commonwealth, by all that is sacred, and all that. is 
dear to you — deliver a wretched prince from undeserved, 
unprovoked injury; and save the kingdom of Numidia, 
which is your own property, from being the prey of vio- 
lence, usurpation, and cruelty. 

IX. — Speech of Canuleius to the Consuls ; in which he demands 
that the Plebeians may be admitted into the Consulship, and 
\ .that the laws prohibiting Patricians and Plebeians from in* 
iermarrying, may be repealed. 

WHAT an insult upon us is this ! If we are not so rich 
as the Patricians, are we not citizens of Rome as well as 
they 1 inhabitants of the same country ? members of the 
same community 1 The nations bordering upon Rome, and 
even strangers more remote, are admitted, not only to mar- 
riage with us, but to what is of much greater importance, 
the freedom of the city. Are we, because we are common- 
ers, to be worse treated than strangers] — And, when we 
demand that the people may be free to bestow their offices 
and dignities on whom they please, do we ask any thing un- 
reasonable or new ? Do we claim more than their original 
inherent right ? What occasion, then, for all this uproar, 
as if the universe were falling to ruin ? They were just go- 
ing to lay violent hands upon me in the senate house. 

What ! must this empire, then, be unavoidably overturn- 
ed ; must Rome of necessity sink at once, if a Plebeian, wor- 
thy of the office, should be raised to the consulship 1 The 
Patricians, I am persuaded, if they could, would deprive 
you of the common light. It certainly offends them that 
you breathe, that you speak, that you have the shapes of 
men. Nay, but to make a commoner a consul, would be, 
say they, a most enormous thing. Numa Pompilius, how- 
ever, without being so much as a Roman citizen, was made 
king of Rome. The elder Tarquin, by birth not even an 
Italian, was nevertheless placed upon the throne. Servius 
TulHus, the son of a captive woman, (nobody knows who his 
father was) obtained the kingdom, sis tb$ reward of his wis* 



Sect. IV.] SPEAKING. 29 i 

dom and virtus. In those days, no man in whom virtue 
shone conspicuous was rejected or despised on account of 
his race and descent. And did the state prosper the less for 
that ? Were not these strangers the very best of all our kings ? 
And, supposing, now, that a Plebeian should have their 
talents and merit, would he be suffered to govern us 1 

But, ' : we find, that, upon the abolition of the regal pow- 
er, no commoner was chosen to the consulate." And what 
of that ] Before Numa's time, there were no pontiffs in 
Rome. Before Servius Tuilius' days, there was no cen- 
sus, no division of the people into classes and centuries. 
Who ever heard of consuls before the expulsion of Tarquin 
the proud I Dictators, we all know, are of modern inven- 
tion ; and so are the officers of tribunes, aediles, quaestors. 
Within these ten years we have made decemvirs, and we 
have unmade them. Is nothing to be done but what has 
been done before 1 That very law forbidding marriages of 
Patricians with Plebeians, is not that a new thing ? Was 
there any such law before the decemvirs enacted it ? And a 
most shameful one it is in a free state. Such marriages, it 
seems, will taint the pure blood of the nobility ! Why, if 
they think so, let them take care to match their sisters and 
daughters with men of their own sort. No Plebeian will do 
violence to the daughter of a Patrician. Those are exploits 
for our prime nobles. There is no need to fear that we 
shall force any body into a contract oi marriage. But, to 
make an express law to prohibit marriages of Patricians 
with Plebeians, what is this but to show the utmost con- 
tempt of us, and to declare one part of the community to 
be impure and unclean ? 

They talk to us of the confusion there would be 'in fami- 
lies, if this statute should be repealed. I wonder they don't 
make a law against a commoner's living near a nobleman, 
or going the same road that he is going, or being present at 
the same feast, or appearing in the same market place. 
They might as well pretend that these things make confu- 
sion in families, as that intermarriages will do it. Does not 
every one know that the children will be ranked according 
to the quality of their father, let him be a Patrician or a 
Plebeian 1 In short, it is manifest enough that we have no- 
thing in view, but to be treated as men and citizens ; nor can 
they who oppose our demand have any motive to do it, but 
the love of domineering. I would fain know of you. con- 
suls and Patricians, is the sovereign power in the people of 



2^2 lessoMs in [r.-oiT it 

Home, or in yon 1 I hope yon will allow, thai the people 
can. at their pleasure, either make a law or repeal cne. And 
will yon, then, as soon as any law is proposed to them, pre- 
tend to list them immediately for Vno war, and hinder them 
from giving their suffrages, by leading them into the held 1 
Hear me, consuls. Whether the news of tho war yen 
talk of he true, or whether it bo only a false rumour, spread 
abroad for nothing but a colour to send the people cut of the 
&i£j : I declare, as a tribune, that this people, who have 
already so often spilt their blood in our country's cause, are 
again ready to arm for its defence and its glory, if they may 
"be restored to their natural rights, and you will no longer 
treat us like strangers in our own country ; hut if you ac- 
count us unworthy of your alliance, by intermarriages ; if 
you will not suffer the entrance to the chief offices in the 
state to he open to all persons of merit, indifferently, but 
will confine your choice of magistrates to the senate alone — 
talk of wars as much as. ever you please — paint in your or- 
dinary discourses, the league and power of our enemies, ten 
times more dreadful than you do now — I declare, that this 
people, whom you so much despise, and to whom you are 
nevertheless indebted for all your victories, shall never more 
enlist themselves — not a man of them shall take arms — 
not a man of them shall expose his life for imperious lords, 
with whom he can neither share the dignities of the state, 
nor in private life, have any alliance by marriage. 

X. — Speech of Junius Brutus, over the dead body of Lucretia. 
YES, noble lady, I swear by this blood, which was once 
so pure^nd which nothing but royal villany could have 
polluted, that I will pursue Lucius Tarquinius the proud, 
his wicked wife, and their children, with tire and sword ; nor 
will I ever suffer any of that family, or of any other whatso- 
ever, to be king in Home : ye gods, I call you to witness 
ibis my oath! There, Romans, turn your eyes to that sad 
spectacle ; the daughter of Lucretius, Collatinus' wife : she 
died by her own hand. See there a noble lady, whom the 
lust of a Tarquin reduced to the necessity of being her own 
executioner, to attest her innocence. Hospitably entertain- 
ed by her, as a kinsman of her husband's, Sextus, the perfi- 
dious guest, became her brutal ravisher. The chaste, the 
generous Lucretia, could not survive the insult. Glorious 
woman ! But once only treated as a slave, she thought life 
bo longer to be endured. Lucretia, as a woman, disdained a. 



Sect. IV.] SPEAKING, £S3 

life that depended on a tyrant's will ; and shall we — shall 
men, with such an example before our eyes, and after 
five-and-twenty years of ignominious servitude, shall we, 
through a fear of dying, defer one single instant to assert 
our liberty ? No, Romans, now is the time ; the favourable 
moment we have so long waited for, is come. Tarquin 
is not at Rome. The Patricians are at the head of the en- 
terprise. The city is abundantly provided with men, arms, 
and all things necessary. There is nothing wanting to se- 
cure the success, if our own courage does not fail us. And 
shall those warriors who have ever been so brave when for- 
eign enemies were to be subdued, or when conquests were 
to be made to gratify the ambition and avarice of a Tarquin, 
be then only cowards, when they are to deliver themselves 
from slavery ? — some of you are perhaps intimidated by the 
army which Tarquin now commands. The soldiers, you 
imagine, will take the part of their general. Banish so 
groundless a fear. The love of liberty is natural to ail men. 
Your fellow-citizens in the camp feel the weight of oppres- 
sion, with as quick a sense as you that are in Rome ; they 
will as eagerly seize the occasion of throwing off the yoke, 
.But let us grant that there are some among them who, 
through baseness of spirit, or a bad education, will be dis- 
posed to favour the tyrant. The number of these can be 
but small, and we have means sufficient in our hands to re- 
duce them to reason. They have left us hostages more 
dear to them than life. Their wives, their children, their 
fathers, their mothers, are here in the city. Courage, Ro- 
mans, the gods are for us ; those gods, whose temples and 
altars the impious Tarquin has profaned, by sacrifices and 
libations made with polluted hands, polluted with blood, 
and with numberless unexpiated crimes committed against 
his subjects. Ye gods, who protected our forefathers— 
ye genii, who watch for the preservation and glory of Rome, 
do you inspire us with courage and unanimity in the glori- 
ous cause, and we will, to our last breath, defend your 
worship from all profanation ! 

XL- — Demosthenes to the Athenians, exciting them to prosecute 
the war against Philip. 

WHEN I compare, Athenians, the speeches of some 

among us with their actions, I am at a loss to reconcile 

what I see with what I hear. Their protestations are full 

zeal against the public enemy ; but their measures are so in* 

-Bb3 



594 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

consistent, that all their professions become suspected. By 
confounding you with a variety of projects, they perplex 
your resolutions ; and lead you from executing what is in 
your power, by engaging you in schemes not reducible to 
practice. 

'Tis true, there was a time, when we were powerful 
enough, not only to defend our own borders, and protect our 
allies, but even to invade Philip in his own dominions. Yes, 
Athenians, there was such a juncture ; I remember it well. 
But, by neglect of proper opportunities, we are no longer 
in a situation to be invaders ; it will be well for us if we can 
provide for our own defence, and our allies. Never did any 
conjuncture require so much prudence as this. However, I 
should not despair of seasonable remedies, had I the art to 
prevail with you to be unanimous in right measures. The 
opportunities which have so often escaped us, have not been 
lost through ignorance or want of judgment, but through 
negligence or treachery.— If I assume, at this time, more 
than ordinary liberty of speech, I conjure you to suffer pa- 
tiently those truths, which have no other end but your own 
good. You Save too many reasons to be sensible how much 
you have suffered by hearkening to sycophants. I shall, 
therefore, be plain, inlaying before you the grounds of past 
miscarriages, in order to correct you in your future conduct. 

You may remember, it is not above three or four years 
since we had the news of Philip's laying siege to the for- 
tress of Juno, in Thrace. It was, as I think, in October we 
received this intelligence. We voted an immediate supply 
of threescore talents ; forty men of war were ordered to sea ; 
and so zealous were we, that, preferring the necessities of 
the state to our very laws, our citizens above the age of five- 
and-forty years, were commanded to serve. What follow- 
ed 1 A whole year was spent idly, without any thing done ; 
and it was but in the third month, of the following year, a 
little after the celebration of the feast of Ceres, that Chara- 
demus set sail, furnished with no more than rive talents, and 
ten galleys, not half-manned. 

A rumour was spread that Philip was sick. That rumour 
was followed by another — that Philip was dead. And then, 
as if all danger died with him, you dropped your prepara- 
tions ; whereas, then, then was your time to push and be 
active ; then was your time to secure yourselves and con- 
found him at once. Had your resolutions, taken with so 
much heat, been as warmly seconded by-action, you had then 



Sect. IV.] SPEAKING. 295 

been- as terrible to Philip, as Philip, recovered, is now 
to you. " To what purpose, at this time, these reflections 1 
What is done, cannot be undone." — But, by your leave, 
Athenians, though past moments are not to be recalled, 
past errors may be repeated. Have we not now, a fresh 
provocation to war 1 Let the memory of oversights, by which 
you have suffered so much, instruct you to be more vigilant 
in the present danger. If the Olynthians are not instantly 
succoured, and with your utmost efforts, you become as- 
sistants to Philip, and serve him more effectually than he 
can help himself. 

It is not, surely, necessary to warn you, that votes alone 
can be of no consequence. Had your resolutions, of them- 
selves, the virtue, to compass what you intend, we should 
not see them multiply every day, as they do, and upon every 
occasion, with so little effect ; nor would Philip be in a 
condition to brave and affront us in this manner. Proceed, 
then, Athenians, to support your deliberations with vigour. 
You have heads capable of advising what is best ; you have 
judgment and experience to discern what is right ; and you 
have power and opportunity to execute what you determine. 
What time so proper for action 1 What occasion so happy? 
And when can you hope for such another, if this be neg- 
lected } Has not Philip, contrary to all treaties, insulted 
you in Thrace ? Does he not, at this instant, straiten and in- 
vade your confederates, whom you have solemnly sworn to 
protect ? Is he not an implacable enemy 1 A faithless ally ? 
The usurper of provinces, to which he has no title nor pre- 
tence 7 A stranger, a barbarian, a tyrant 1 And, indeed, 
what is he not 1 

Observe, I beseech you, men of Athens, how different 
your conduct appears, from the practices of your ancestors. 
They were friends to truth and plain dealing, and detested 
flattery and servile compliance. By unanimous consent, 
they continued arbiters of all Greece, for the space of for- 
ty-five years, without interruption ; a public fund, of no less 
than ten thousand talents, was ready for any emergency ; 
they exercised over the kings of Macedon that authority 
wdiich is due to barbarians ; obtained, both by sea and land, 
in their own persons, frequent and signal victories ; and, 
by their noble exploits, transmitted to posterity an immortal 
memory of their virtue, superior to the reach of malice 
and detraction. It is to them we owe that great number of 
public edifices, by which the city of Athens exceeds all the 



296 - LESSONS IN [Part 11. 

rest of the world in beauty and magnificence. It is to them 
we owe so many stately temples, so richly embellished, 
but, above all, adorned with the spoils of vanquished ene- 
mies. — But, visit their own private habitations ; visit the 
houses of Aristides, Miltiades, or any other of those patriots 
of antiquity ; — you will find nothing, not the least mark or 
ornament, to distinguish them from their neighbours. They 
took part in the government, net to enrich themselves, but 
the public ; they had no scheme or ambition, but for the 
public; nor knew any interest, but for the public. It was 
by a close and steady application to the general good of 
their country, by an exemplary piety towards the immortal 
gods, by a strict faith and religious honesty betwixt man 
and man, and a moderation always uniform and of a piece 
they established that reputation, which remains to this day, 
and will last to utmost posterity. 

Such, O men of Athens! were your ancestors: so glo- 
rious -in the eye of the world ; so bountiful and munificent 
to their country ; so sparing, so modest, so self-denying to 
themselves. What resemblance can we find, in the pre- 
sent generation, of these great men 1 At a time, when 
your ancient competitors have left you a clear stage ; when 
the Lacedemonians are disabled; the Thebans employed 
in troubles of their own ; when no other state whatever is 
in a condition to rival or molest you ; in short, when you 
are at full liberty ; when you have the opportunity and the 
power to become once more the sole arbiters of Greece : 
you permit patiently, whole provinces to be wrested from 
you ; you lavish the public money in scandalous and ob- 
scure uses ; you suffer your allies to perish in time of peace, 
whom you preserved in time of war ; and to sum up all, 
you yourselves, by your mercenary court, and servile resig- 
nation to the will and pleasure of designing, insidious lead- 
ers, abet, encourage, and strengthen the most dangerous 
and formidable of your enemies. Yes, Athenians, I repeat 
it, you yourselves are the contrivers of your own ruin. 
Lives there a man who has confidence enough to deny it 1 
Let him arise, and assign, if he can, any other cause of the 
success and prosperity of Philip. — " But," you reply, 
" what Athens may have lost in reputation abroad, she has 
gained in splendor at home. Was there ever a greater 
appearance of prosperity ; a greater face of plenty ? Is 
not the city enlarged 1 Are not the streets better paved, 
houses repaired and beautified ? ,, ! — Away with such trifles ! 



Sect. IV.] SPEAKING, 297 

Shall I be paid with counters 1 An old square new vamped 
up ! a fountain ! an aqueduct ! Are these acquisitions to 
I: rag of? Cast your eye upon the magistrate, under whose 
ministry you boast these precious improvements. Behold 
the despicable creature, raised, all at once, from dirt to 
opulence ; from the lowest obscurity to the highest ho- 
nours. Have not some of these upstarts built private houses 
and seats vieing with the most sumptuous of cur public 
palaces 1 And how have their fortunes and their power in- 
creased, but as the commonwealth has been ruined and im- 
poverished '? 

To what are we to impute these disorders ; and tp what 
cause assign the decay of a state so powerful and flou- 
rishing in past times 7 — The reason is plain. — The servant 
is now become the master. The magistrate was then sub- 
servient to the people ; punishments and rewards were pro- 
perties of the people; ail honours, dignities, and prefer- 
ments, were disposed by the voice and favour of the peo- 
ple : bat the magistrate, now, has usurped the right of the 
people, and exercises an arbitrary authority over his ancient 
and natural lord. You miserable people ! (the meanwhile, 
without money, without friends) from being the ruler, are 
become the servant ; from being the master, the dependent ; 
happy that these governors, into whose hands you have thus 
resigned your own power, are so good and so gracious as to 
continue your poor allowance to see plays. 

Believe me, Athenians, if, recovering from this lethargy, 
you would assume the ancient freedom and spirit of your 
fathers ; if you would be your own sol hers and your' own 
commanders, confiding no longer your affairs in foreign or 
mercenary hands ; if yoa would charge yourselves with your 
own defence, employing abroad, ibr the public, what you 
waste in unprofitable pleasures at home ; the world might, 
once more, behold you making a figure worthy of Atheni- 
an-. — " You would have us then (you say") do service in cr- 
annies, in our own persons: and. for so doing, you would 
have the pensions we receive in time of peace'accepted as pay 
in time of war. Is it thus we are to understand you V 1 — 
Yes, Athenians, it is my plain meaning. I would make it a 
standing rule, that no person. grQ:d cr little, should be 
the better for the public money, who should grudge to 
employ it for the public service. Are we in peace 1 the 
public is charged with your subsistence Are we in war, 
or under a necessiiv, at this time, to enter into a war ! 



293 LESSONS IN [Fart II. 

let your gratitude oblige you to accept, as pay, in defence 
of your benefactors, what you receive, in peace, as mere 
bounty.- — Thus, without any innovation; without altering 
or abolishing any thing, but pernicious novelties, intro- 
duced for the encouragement of sloth and idleness ; by 
converting only, for the future, the same funds, for the 
use of the serviceable, which" are spent, at present, upon 
the unprofitable \ you may be well served in your armies; 
your troops regularly paid ; justice duly administered ; the 
public revenues reformed and increased ; and every mem- 
ber of the commonwealth, rendered useful to his country, 
accordinp: to his aae and ability, without any further hur- 
den to the state. 

This, O men of Athens, is what my duty prompted me 
to represent to you upon this occasion. — May the gods in- 
spire you to determine upon such measures, as may be 
most expedient for the particular and general good of our 
country ! 

XII. — -Jupite[r to the inferior Deities, forbidding them te 
take any part in the contention between the Greeks and 
Trojans. 

AURORA, now, fair (laughter of the dawn, 

Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn ; 

When Jove conven'd the senate of the skies. 

Where high Olympus' cloudy tops arise. 

The sire of gods his awful silehct broke ; 

The heavens, attentive, trembled as he -poke :— 

:i Celestial states ! Immortal gods ! give ear ; 

Hear our decree : and rev'r- nee what ye hear : 

The fix'd decree, which not all heaven can move : 

Thou, fate fulfil it: and ye powers approve. 

What god shao enter yon forbidden field. 

Who yields assistance, or hut wills to yield ; 

Back to the skies, with shame ho s l oill be driv'n, 

Gash'd with dishonest wounds, the scorn of heaven: 

Or, from our sacred hiil. with fury thrown, 

Deep in the dark Tartarean gulf shall groan ; 

With burning chains frx'd to the brazen floors, 

And iock'd by hell's inexorable doers 

As far beneath th" infernal centre hurl'd, 

As from that centre to In' ethereal world. 

Let each, submissive, dread those dire abodes, 

Nor tempt the vengeance of the God of gods 

League all your forces, then, ye powers above ; 

Your strength unite against the might of Jove, 

Let down our golden everlasting chain, 

Whose strong embrace holds heaven, and earth, and main. 



Sect. IV.] SPEAKING. 289 

Strive, all of mortal and immortal birth, 

To drag, by this, the tbund'rer down to earth, 

Ye strive in vain. If I but stretch this hand, 

I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land. 

I fix the chain to great Olympus' height, 

And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight. 

For such I reign unbounded and above : 

And such are men, and gods, compared to Jove." 

XIII. — JEneas to Queen Dido, giving an Account of the 

Sack of Troy. 

ALL were attentive to the godlike man, 
When from his lofty couch, he thus began : — 
Great Q,ueen ! What you command me to relate, 
Renews the sad remembrance of our fate ; 
An empire from its old foundations rent, 
And ev'ry wo the Trojans underwent ; 
A pop'lous city made a desert place ; 
All that I saw and part of which 'I was, 
Not e'en the hardest of our foes could hear, 
Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear. 

'Twas now the dead of night, when sleep repairs 
Our bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares, 
When Hector's ghost before my sight appears : 
Shrouded in blood he stood, and bath'd in tears : 
Such as when, by the fierce Pelides slain, 
Thessalian coursers dragg'd him o'er the plain. 
Swoln were his feet, as when the thongs were thrust 
Through the piere'd limbs ; his body black with dust, 
Unlike that Hector, who return'd from toils 
Of War triumphant, in iEaci an spoils; 
Or him, who made the fainting Greeks retire, 
Hurling amidst their fleets the Phrygian fire. 
His hair and beard were clotted stiff with goro : 
The ghastly wounds he for his country bore, 
Now stream'd afresh. 
I wept to see the visionary man ; 
And whilst my trance continu'd, thus began : — » 

" O light of Trojans, and support of Troy, 
Thy father's champion, and thy country's joy ! 
O long expected by thy friends ! From whence 
Art thou so late return'd to our defence ? 
Alas ! what wounds are these ? What new disgrac© 
Deforms the manly honours of thy face ?" 
~ rr> The spectre, groaning from his inmost breast, 

This warning, in these mournful words express'd. 

" Haste, goddess born ! Escape, by timely flight, 
The flames and horrors of this fatal night; 
Thy foes already have possess'd our wall ; 
Troy nods from high, and totters to her fall. 
Enough is paid to Priam's royal name, 
Enough to country, and to deathless fame 



*^E 



m LESSONS IN [Part II. 

If by a mortal arm my father's throne 
Could have been sav'd — this arm the ^t had done. 
Troy row commends to thee her future state, 
And gives her gods companions of thy fate ; 
Under their umbrage hope for happier walls, 
Aha 1 follow where thy various fortune calls. " 
lie said, and brought from forth the sacred choir, 
The gods and relies of th' immortal fire. 

Now peals of shouts came thund'rinrr from afar, 
Cries, threats, and loud lament, and mingled war. 
The noise approaches, though our palace stood 
Aloof from streets, embosom'd close with wood \ 
Louder and louder still I hearth 1 alarms 
Of human cries distinct, and clashing arms. 
Fear broke my slumbers. 
I mount the terrace ; thence the town survey, 
And listen what the swelling sounds convey. 
Then Hector's faith was manifestly clear d ; 
And Grecian fraud in open light appear'd. 
The palace of Beiphobus ascends 
In smoky flames, and catches on his friends. 
Ucalegon burns next ; the seas are bright 
With splendors not their own, and shine with sparkling light 

New clamors and new clangors now arise, 
The trumpet's voice, with agonizing cries. 
With frenzy seiz'd, I run to meet th' alarms, 
Resolv'd on death, rcsolv'd to die in arms. 
But. first to gather friends, with whom t' oppose, 
If fortune favour'd, and repel the foes, 
By courage rous'd, by love of country fir'd, 
With sense of honour and revenge inspir'd. 
Pantheus, Apollo's priest, a sacred name, 
Had 'scap'd the Grecian swords, and pass'd the flame. 
With relics loaded, to my doors he fled, 
And by the hand his tender grandson led. 

" What hope, O Pantheus ? whither can we run ? 
Where make a stand ? Or, what can yet be done ?" 
Scarce had I spoke, when Pantheus, with a groan, f 
" Troy is no more ! Her glories now are gone. 
The fatal day, th' appointed hour is Corne, 
When wrathful Jove's irrevocable doom 
Transfers the Trojan state to Grecian hands : 
Our city's wrapt in flames ; the foe commands. 
To several posts their parties they divide ; 
Some block the narrow streets ; some scour the wide. 
The bold they kill ; th' unwary they surprise ; 
Who fights meets death ; and death finds him who flies.*' 

XIV.— Moloch, the fallen Angel, to the infernal Powers, incit~ 
ing them to renew the War. 

MY sentence is for open war. Of wiles 
More unexpert, I boast not ; then let tho?* 



Sect. IV.] SPEAKING, 301 

Contrive who need; or when they need, not now. 
For while they sit contriving, shall the rest, 
Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait 
The signal to ascend, sit lingering here, 
Heaven's fugitives, end for their dweliing-place 
Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame, 
The prison of his tyranny, who reigns 
By our delay ? No ; let" us rather choose, 
Arm'd with heU flames and fury, all at once. 
O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way. 
Turning our tortures into horrid arms, 
Against the tort'rer; when, to meet the noise 
Of his almighty engine, he shall hear 
Infernal thunder; and for lightning, see 
Black fire and horror shot with equal rage 
Among his angels — and his throne itself, 
Mix'd with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire, 
His own invented torments. But perhaps, 
The way seems difficult and steep to scale, 
With upright wing, against a higher foe. I 

Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench J , 

Of that forgetful lake benumb not still. 
That in out proper motion we ascend •> 

Up to our native sent ; descent and fail 
T< us m adverse: Who but felt of late, 
When the fierce foe hung upon our broken rear 
Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, 
With what compulsion and laborious flight, 
We sunk thus low ? Th' ascent is easy then, 
Th' event is fear'd. Should we again provoke 
Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find,* 
To our destruction ; if .here be in hell, 
Fear to be worse destroy d : What can be worse "'*■ 
Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemn'd 
In this abhorred deep to utter wo ; 
Where pain of un extinguish able hre, 
' Must exercise us without hope of end, 
The vassals of his anger, when the scourge 
Inexorable, and the tort'ring hour 
Calls us to penance ? More desiroy'd than thus 
We should be quite abolish'd and expire. 
What fear we then ? What doubt we to incense 
His utmost ire ? Which to the height enrag'd, 
Will either quite consume us, and reduce 
To nothing this essential, (happier far, 
Than miserable, to have eternal being) 
Or if our substance be indeed divine, 
And eannut cease to be, we are at worst 
On this side nothing ; and by proof we feel 
Our power sufficient to disturb this heaven, 
And with perpetual inroads to alarm, 
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne ; 
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge, 
C c 



302 LESSONS IN [Part ll 

XV. — Speech of Belial, advising Peace. 

I SHOULD be much for open war, O peers, 
As not behind in hate, if what was mg'd 
Main reason to persuade immediate war, 
Did not dissuade the most, and seem to east 
Ominous conjecture on the whole success ; 
When he who most excels in feats of arms, 
In what he counsels, and in what excels, 
Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair 
And utter dissolution, as the scope 
Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. 
First, what revenge ? The towers of heaven are fill'd 
With armed watch, that render all access 
Impregnable ; oft on the bordering deep 
Encamp their legions : or, with obscure wing, 
Scout far and wide, into the realm of night, 
Scorning surprise. Or, could we break our way 
By force, and at our heels all hell should rise 
With blackest insurrection, to confound 
Heaven's purest light — yet our great enemy, 
All incorruptible, would on his throne, 
Sit unpolluted ; and th' ethereal mould, 
Incapable of stain, would soon expel 
Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, 
Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope 
Is fiat despair. We must exasperate 
Th' almighty victor to spend ail his rage, 
And that must end us ; that must be our cure, 
To be no more. Sad fate ! For who would lose, 
Though full of pain, this intellectual being, 
Those thoughts that wander through eternity, 
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost 
In the wide womb of uncreated night, 
Devoid of sense and motion ? And who knows, 
Let this be good, whether our angry foe 
Can give it, or will ever ? How he can, 
Is doubtful ; that he never will, is sure. 
Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, 
Belike through impotence, or unaware, 
To give his enemies their wish, and end 
Them in his anger, whom his anger saves 
To punish endless ? Wherefore cease we then ? 
Say they who counsel war, we are decreed, 
Reserv'd and destin'd to eternal wo ; 
Whatever doing, what can suffer more, 
What can we suffer worse ? I3 this then worst, 
Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms ? 
What, when we fled amain, pursu'd and struck 
With heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought 
The deep to shelter us ? This hell then seem'd 
A refuge from these wounds ; or when we lay 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. 303 

Cbain'd on the burning lake ? That sure was worse, 
What if the breath that kindled those grim tires, 
Awak'd, should blow them into sevenfold rage, 
And plunge us in the flames ? Or, from above, 
Should intermitted vengeance arm again 
His red right hand to plague us ? What if all 
Her stores were open'd, and this firmament 
Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire, 
Impendent horrors, threat'ning hideous fall 
One day upon our heads ; while we, perhaps, 
Designing or exhorting glorious war, 
Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurl'd 
Each on his rock transhVd, the sport and prey 
Of wrecking whirlwinds, or for ever sunk 
Under \ T on boiiing ocean, wrapt in chains ; 
There to converse with everlasting groans, 
Unrcspited, unpitied, urirepriev'd, 
Ages of hopeless end ! This would be worse, 
War, therefore, open or ccnceal'd, alike 
My voice dissuades, 



SECTION V. 

DRAMATIC PIECES. 

I.— DIALOGUE. 

I. — Belcour and Stock-well. 

Stock, MB. BELCOUR, I am rejoiced to see you ; you 
are welcome to England. 

Bel. I thank yon heartily, good Mr. Stockwell. You 
and I have long conversed at a distance ; now we are met ; 
and the pleasure this meeting gives me, amply compensates 
for the perils I have run through in accomplishing it. 

Stock. What perils, Mr. Belcour 1 I could not have 
thought you would have met with a bad passage at this time 
o'year. 

Bel. Nor did we. Courier-like, we came posting to your 
shores, upon the pinions of the swiftest gales that ever blew. 
It is upon English ground all my difficulties have arisen , 
it is the passage from the river-side I complain of. 

Stock. Indeed ! What obstructions can you have met be- 
tween this and the river-side I 

Bel. Innumerable ! Your town's as full of denies as the 
island of Corsica ; and I believe they are as obstinately 



304 LESSONS IN [Fart IL 

defended. So much hurry, bustle, and confusion, on your 
quays ; so many sugar casks, porter bulls, and common 
council men. in your streets ; that, unless a man marched 
with artillery in his front, it is more than the labour of a 
Hercules can effect, to make any tolerable way through 
your town. 

Stock, I am sorry you have been so incommoded. 

Bel. Why, truly, ii was all my own fault. Accustomed 
to a land of slaves, and out of patience with the whole 
tribe of custom-house extortioners, boatmen, tidewaiters, and 
water-bailiffs, that beset me on all sides, worse than a swarm 
of moschetoes, I proceeded a little too roughly to brush 
them away with my ratan. The sturdy rogues took this 
in dudgeon ; and beginning to rebel, the mob chose differ- 
ent sides, and a furious scuffle ensued ; in the course of 
which, my person and apparel suffered so much, that I was 
obliged to step into the first tavern to relit, before I could 
make mj approaches in any decent trim. 

Stock, Well, Mr. Belcottf, it is a rough sample you have 
had of my countrymen's spirit ; but I trust you will not think • 
the worse of them for it. 

Bel, Not at all, not at all : I like them the better. — 
W T eie I only a visiter, I might perhaps wish them a little 
more tractable ; but, as a fellow subject, and a sharer in, 
their freedom, I applaud their spirit — though I feel the ef- 
fects of it in every bone in my skin. — — Well, Mr. Stock- 
well, for the first time in my life, here am I in England ; 
at the fountain head of pleasure ; in the land of beauty, of 
arts, and elegancies. My happy stars have given me a good 
estate, and the conspiring winds have blown me hither to 
spend it. 

Stock. To use it, not to waste it, I should hope ; to 
treat it, Mr. Beicotir, not as a vassal over whom you have a 
wanton despotic power, but as a subject whom you aro 
bound to govern with a temperate and restrained authority. 

Be!. True, Sir, most truly said ; mine's a commission, 
not a right ; I am the offspring of distress, and every child 
of sorrow is my brother.- While- 1 have hands to hold, 
therefore, I will hold them open to mankind. But, Sir, my 
passions are my masters ; they take me where they will ; 
and oftentimes they leave to reason and virtue, nothing but 
my wishes and my sighs. 

Stock. Come, come, the man who can accuse, corrects 
himself 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. 305 

! Bel. Ah ! that is an office I am weary of. I wish a 
friend would take it up : I would to heaven you had leisure 
for ihe employ. But, did you drive a trade to the four cor- 
ners of the world, you would not rind the task so toilsome 
as to keep me free from faults. 

Stock. Well, I am not discouraged. This candour teils 
me I should not have the fault of self-conceit to combat ; 
that, at least, is not among the number. 

Bel. No ; if I knew that man on earth who thought 
more humbly of me than I do of myself, I would take his 
opinion and forego my own. 

Stock. And were I to choose a pupil, it should be one of 
your complexion : so if you will come along with me, we 
will agree upon your admission, and enter upon a course of 
lectures directly. 

Bel. With all my heart. 

II. — Lady Townly and Lady Grace. 

Lady T. OIL my dear Lady Grace ! how could you leave 
me so unmercifully alone all this while ? 

Lady G. I thought my lord had been with you, 

Lady T. Why, yes — and therefore I wanted your relief; 
for he has been in such a fluster here 

Lady G. Bless me ! for what 1 

Lady T. Only our usual breakfast ; we have each of us 
had our dish of matrimonial comfort this morning — we have 
been charming company. 

Lady G. I am mighty glad of it ; sure it must be a vast 
happiness when man and wife can gl\e themselves the same 
turn of conversation ! 

Lady T. Oh, the prettiest thing in the world ! 

Lady G. Now I should be afraid, that where two people 
are every day together so, they must be often in want of 
something to talk upon. 

Lady T. Oh, my dear, you are the most mistaken in the 
world ! married people have things to talk of, child, that 

never enter into the imagination of others Why, here's 

my lord and I. now, we have not been married above two 
short years, you know, and we have already eight or ten 
things constantly in bank, that whenever we want company, 
we can take up any one of them for two hours together, 
and the subject never the flatter ; nay, if we have occasion 
for it, it will be as fresh next day too ; as it was the first 
hour it entertained us. 

C c 2 J&$ 



306 LESSONS IN [Part II; 

Lady G. Certainly that must be vastly pretty. 

Lady T. Oh, there's no life like it ! Why, t'other day, 
for example, when you dined abroad, ray lord and I, after 
a pretty cheerful tele a tete meal, sat us down by the fire- 
side, in an easy, indolent, pick tooth way, for about a 
quarter of an hour, as if we had not thought of one another's 
being in the room. — At last, stretching himself and yawning 

—My dear, says he, aw you come home very late 

last night.-— — 'Twas but just turned of two, says I.— — 

I was in bed aw -by eleven, says he. — So you are 

every night, says I. — Well, says he, I am amazed you can 
sit up so late. —How can you be amazed, says I, at a thing 

that happens so often ! —Upon which we entered into a 

conversation: and though this is a point which has enter- 
tained us above fifty times already, we always find so many 
pretty new things to say upon it, that I believe in my soul 
it will last as long as I live. 

Lady G. But pray, in such sort of family dialogues (tho' 
extremely well for passing the time) doesn't there now and 
then enter some little witty sort of bitterness 1 

Lady T. Oh, yes ! which does not do amiss at all. A 
smart repartee, with a zest of recrimination at the head of 
it, makes the prettiest sherbet. Ay, ay, if we did not mix 
a little of the acid with it, a matrimonial society would be 
so luscious, that nothing but an old liquorish prude would 
he able to bear it. 

Lady G. Weil, certainly you have the most elegant 
taste— 

Lady T. Though, to tell you the truth, my dear, I rather 
think we squeezed a little too much lemon into it this 

bout ; for it grew so sour at last, that I think 1 almost 

told him he was a fool — —and he again- -talked some- 
thing oddly of turning me out of doors. 

Lady G. Oh ! have a care of that. 
• Lady T. Nay, if he should, I may thank my own wise 
father for it. 

Lady G. How so 1 

Lady T. Why, when my good lord first opened his hon- 
ourable trenches before me, my unaccountable papa, in 
whose hands I then was, gave me up at discretion. 

Lady G. How do you mean T 
- Lady T. He said the wives of this age were come to 
that pass, that he would not desire even his own daughter 
should be trusted with pinmoney j sq that my whole traia 



Sicr: V.j SPEAKING, 307 

of separate inclinations are left entirely at the mercy of a 
husband's odd humours. 

Lady G. Why, that indeed is enough to make a woman 
of spirit look about her. 

Lady T, Nay, but to be serious, my dear, what would 
you really have a woman to do in my case 1 

Lady G. Why, if I had a sober husband, as you have, I 
would make myself the happiest wife in the world, by being 
as sober as he. 

Lady T. Oh, you wicked thing! how can you teaze one 
at this rate, when you know he is so very sober, that (ex- 
cept giving me money) there is not one thing in the world 
he can do to please me. And I, at the same time, partly 
by nature, and partly, perhaps by keeping the best compa- 
ny, do with my soul love almost every thing he hates. I 
dote upon assemblies ; my heart bounds at a ball ; and at 
an opera — I expire. Then, I love play to distraction ;- 
cards enchant me — and dice — put me out of my little wits. 
Dear, dear hazard — Oh, what a flow of spirits it gives one ! 
do you never play at hazard, child T 

Lady G. Oh, never! I don't think it sits well upon wo- 
men ; there's something so masculine, so much the air of a 
rake in it. You see how it makes the men swear and curse ; 
and, when a woman is thrown into the same passion — - 
why— 

Lady T. That's very true ; one is a little put to it, some- 
times, not to make use of the same words to express it. 

Lady G. Well, and upon ill luck, pray what words are 
you really forced to make use of 1 

Lady T. Why, upon a very hard case, indeed, when a 
sad wrong word is rising just to one's tongue's end, I give a 
great gulp and swallow it. 

Lady G. Well — and is it not enough to make you for- 
swear play as long as you live r 

Lady T. O, yes ; I have forsworn it. 

Lady G. Seriously ? 

Lady T. Solemnly, a thousand times; but then one "is 
constantly forsworn. 

Lady G. And how can you answer that T 

Lady T. My deaf, what we say, when we are losers, we 
look upon to be no more binding than a lover's oath, or a 
great man's promise. But I beg pardon, child : I should 
not lead you so far into the world ; you are a prude, and 
design to live soberly, 



308 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

Lady G. Why, I confess my nature and my education 
do in a good degree incline me that way. 

Lady T. Well, how a woman of spirit (for you don't 
want that, child) can dream of living soberly, is to me in- 
conceivable ; for you will marry, I suppose. 

Lady G. I can't tell but I may. 

Lady T. And won't you live in town 1 

Lady G, Half the year, I should like it very well. 

Lady T. My stars ! and you would really live in London 
half the year to be sober in it ? 

Lady G. Why not 1 

Lady T. Why can't you as well go and be sober in the 
country ? 

Lady G. So I would — t'other half year. 

Lady T. And pray, what comfortable scheme of life 
would you form now for your summer and winter sober en- 
tertainments ? 

Lady G. A scheme that I think might very well content 
us. 

Lady T. Oh, of all things, let's hear it. 

Lady G. Why, in summer I could pass my leisure hours 
in riding, in reading, walking by a canal, or sitting at the 
end of it under a great tree ; in dressing, dining, chatting 
with an agreeable friend ; perhaps hearing a little music, 
taking a dish of tea, or a game at cards — soberly ; manag- 
ing my family, looking into its accounts, playing with my 
children, if I had any ; or in a thousand other innocent 
amusements — soberly ; and possibly, by these means, I 
might induce my husband to be as sober as myself. 

Lady T. Well, my dear, thou art an astonishing crea- 
ture ! For sure such a primitive antediluvian notion of life 
have not been in any head these thousand years. Un- 
der a great tree ! ha ! ha ! ha !— — But I heg we may have 
the sober town scheme too — for I am charmed with the 
country one. 

Lady G. You shall, and I'll try to stick to my sobriety 
there too. 

Lady T. Well, though I am sure it will give me the va- 
pours, I must hear it. 

Ladtf G. Why, then, for fear of your fainting, madam, 
I will first so far come into the fashion, that I would never 
be dressed out of it — but still it should be soberly ; for I 
can't think it any disgrace to a woman of my private fortune 
not to wear her lace as fine as the wedding suit of a first 






Sect. V.] SPEAKING. 309 

dutchess ; though there is one extravagance I would ven- 
ture to come up to. 

Lady T. Ay, now for it 

Lady G. I would every day bo as clean as a bride. 

Lady T. Why, the men say that's a greet step to be 

made one. Well, now you are drest, pray let's see to 

what purpose. 

Lady G. I would visit — that is, my real friends ; but as 
little for form as possible 1 would go to court ; some- 
times to an assembly, nay, play at quadrille — soberly. I 
would see all the good plays ; and because 'tis the fas 
now and then go to an opera ; but I would not expire there 
— for fear 1 should never go again. And lastly, I can't say, 
but for curiosity, if I liked my company, I might be drawn 
in once to a masquerade ; — and this, I think, is as far as any 
woman can go — soberly. 

Lady T. Well, if ii had not been for tbat last piece of 
sobriety, I was just going to call for some snrfeii-wa tev. 

Lady G. Why, don't you think, with the farther aid of 
breakfasting, dining, taking the air, supping, sleeping, (not 
to say a word of devotion,) the four-and» twenty hours might 
roll over in a tolerable manner 1 

Lady T. Tolerable ; deplorable ! — Why, child, all you 
propose is but to endure life ; now, I want to enjoy it. 

Ul.—Priuli and Jaffier. 

Fri. No more ! I'll hear no more ! Be gone and leave 
me. 

Jaff. Not hear me ! By my sufferings, bur you shall! 
My lofd, my lord ! I'm not that abject wretch 
You think me. Patience ! where' s the distance throws 
Me back so far, but I may boldly ^peak 
In right, though proud oppression will not hear me ! 
Have i vrong'd me 1 

Jaff. Con] i ere e'er 

Have brook'd injustice or the doing wrong, 
I need not now thus low have bent myself, 
To : ring from a cruel lather. 

Wrong 

Pri. eg'd me. In the nicest point, 

The nor ur '. ." my house, you've done me wrong, 

we], 
as made you loekV on 
By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation, 



310 LESSONS IN [Part Hi 

Pleas'd with your seeming virtue, I received you ; 
Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits ; 
My house, my table, nay, my fortune too, 

My very self was yours : you might have us'd me 
To your best service ; like an open friend 
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine : 
When, in requital of my best endeavours, 
You treacherously practis'd to undo me ; 
Seduc'd the weakness of my age's darling, 
My only child, and stole her from my bosom, 

Jqff. 'T is to me you owe her ; 
Childless you had been else, and in the grave 
Your name extinct ; no more Priuli heard" of. 
You may remember, scarce five years are past, 
Since in your brigantine you sail'd to see 
The Adriatic wedded by our Duke ; 
And I was with you. Your unskilful pilot 
Dash'd us upon a rock ; when to your beat 
You made for safety ; entered first yourself: 
Th' affrighted Belvidera, following next, 
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side, 
Was by a wave wash'd off into the deep ; 
When instantly I plung'd into the sea, 
And buffeting the billows to her rescue, 
lledeem'd her life with half the loss of mine. 
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her, 
And, with the other, dash'd the saucy waves, 
That throng'd and press'd to rob me of my prize. 
I brought her ; gave her to your despairing arms : 
Indeed, you thank'd me ; but a nobler gratitude 
Hose in her soul ; for, from that hour, she lov'd me, 
Till, for her life, she paid me with herself 

Pri. You stole her from me ; like a thief, you stole her 
At dead of night ; that cursed hour you chose 
To rifle me of all my heart held dear. 
May all your joys in her prove false as mine ; 
A sterile fortune and a barren bed 
Attend you both ; continual discord make 
Your days and nights bitter and grievous still ; 
May the hard hand of a vexatious need 
Oppress and grind you ; till at last you find 
The curse of disobedience all your portion. 

Jaff. Half of your curse you have bestow'd in vain : 
Heaven has already crc-wn'd our faithful loves 



V.] SPEAKING. 311 

With a young bo}*, sweet as his mother's beauty. 
May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire, 
And happier than his father. 

Pri. No more. 

Jqffl. Yes, all ; and then adieu for ever. 

There's not a wretcn, that lives on common charity, 

But's happier than I : for I have known 

The luscious sweets of plenty ; every night 

Have slept with soft content about my head, 

And never wak'd but to a joyful morning ; 

Yet now must fall ; like a full ear of corn, 

Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet's wither'd in the ripening. 

Pri Home, and be humble ; study to retrench ; 
Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hull, 
Those pageants of thy folly ; 
Reduce the glitt'ring trappings of thy wife 
To humble weeds, lit for thy little state : 
Then to some suburb cottage both retire ; 
Drudge to feed loathsome life : get brats and starve. 
Home, home, I say. • [$ha& 

Jajf. Yes, if my heart would let me — 
This proud, this swelling heart ; home would I go, 
But that my doors are hateful to my eyes, 
Fill'd and damm'd up with gaping creditors. 
I've now not fifty ducats in the world ; 
Yet still I am in love, and pleas'd with ruin. 
O Belvidera ! Oh, she is my wife ! — 
And we will bear our wayward late together — 
But ne'er know comfort more. 

IV. — Boniface a/id AimzvelL 

Bon. THIS way, this way, Sir. 

Aim. You're my landlord, I suppose. 

Bon. Yes, Sir, I'm old Will Boniface ; pretty well known 
upon this road, as the saying is. j 

Aim. O, Mr. Boniface, your servant. 

Bon. O, Sir, -W T hat will your honour please to drink, 

as the saying is 1 

Aim. I have heard your town of Litchfield much famed 
for ale : I think I'll taste that. 

Bon. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tuns of the best 
ale in Staffordshire : 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear 
as amber, and strong as brandy ; and will be just fourteen 
years old the fifth day of next March, old style. 



312 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

Aim. You're very exact, I find, in the age of your ale. 

Bon. As punctual, Sir, as I am in the age of my children: 
I'll show you such ale !— Here, tapster, broach number 
1706, as the saying is — Sir, you shall taste my anno Dovihii. 
— I have lived in Litchfield, man and boy, above eight and 
fifty years, and I believe, have not consumed eight and fif- 
ty ounces of meat. 

Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess by your 
bulk. 

Bon. Not in my life, Sir. I have fed purely upon ale ; I 
have eat my ale, drank my ale. and I always sleep upon ale. 
[Enter tapster, tmih a tankard] Now, Sir, yon shall see— — - 
Your worship's health ; [drinks]---- Ha ! delicious, delicious ! 
—Fancy it Burgundy, only fancy it,— -and 'tis worth tea 
shillings a quart. 

Aim. [Drinks'] ? Tis confounded strong. 

Bon. Strong ! it must be so, or how should we be strong 
that drink it ? , 

Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord? 

Bon. Eight una fifty years, upon my credit, Sir :. but it 
kilFd -^y wife, poor woman, as the sayikg is. 

Aim. How came that to pass ? 

Bon. I don't know how. Sir,— she would not let the ale 
take its natural course, Sir ; she was for qualifying it every 
now and then with a dram, as the s ayipg is ; and an honest 
gentleman thai came this way from Ireland, made her a 
present of a dozen bottles of usquebaugh— but the poor 
woman was never well after— but however, I was obliged 
to the gentleman, you know. 

Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that kill'd her 1 

Bon. My lady Bountiful said so— she, good lady, did what 
could be done : she cured her of three tymponies ; but the 
fourth carried her off But she's happy, and I'm contented, 
a._ the saying is. 

Aim. Who is that lady Bountiful you mentioned 1 

Bon. Odd's my life, Sir, we'll drink her health : [drinks] 
— My lady Bountiful is one of the best of women. Her last 
husband, Sir Charles Bountiful, left her worth a thousand 
pounds a year ; and I believe she lays out one half on't in 
charitable uses, for the good of her neighbours. 
: Aim, Has the lady been any other way useful in her ge- 
neration 1 

Bon. Yes, Sir, she has had a daughter by Sir Charles f 
the, finest woman in all our QOUatrv, and the greatest fortune; j 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. 313 

She has a son too, by her first husband ; 'squire Sullen, who 
married a line lady from London t'other day ; if you please. 
Sir, we'll drink his health, [drinks] 

Aim. What sort of a man is he 7 

Bon. Why, Sir, the man's well enough ; says little, thinks 
less, and does — nothing at ail, faith : but he's a man of 
great estate, and values nobody; 

Aim. A sportsman, I suppose ] 

Bon. Yes, he's a man of pleasure ; lie plays at whist/ 
and smokes his pipe eight and forty hours together some- 
times. I 

Aim. A fine sportsman, truly !— And married, you say ''■ ' 

Bon. Ay ; and to a curious woman, Sir. — But he's my 
landlord ; and so a man, you know, would not— — -Sir, my* 
humble service to you. [drinks]-* Though I value not a far- 
thing what he can do to me ; I pay him his rent at quarter 
day : I have a good running trade— I have but one daugh- 
ter, and I can give her — but no matter for that. 

Aim. You're very happy, Mr. Boniface ; pray, What other 
company have you in town 1 

Bon. A power of tine ladies ; and then we have the 
French officers. 

Aim. O, that's right, you have a good many of those 
gentlemen : pray how do you like their company 1 

Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish we had 
as many more of them. They're full of money, and pay 
double for every thing they have. They know, Sir, that 
we paid good round taxes for the* taking of 'em ; and so they 
are willing to reimburse us a little ; one of 'em lodges in my 
house. • [Bell rings] — I beg your worship's pardon — I'll 
wait on you again in half a minute. 

V.- — Lovegold and Lappet. 

Love. ALL's well hitherto ; my dear money is safe. — Is 
it you, Lappet ] 

Lap. I should rather ask if it be you, Sir ; why, you look 
so youngand vigorous- 

'Love. Do 17 Do I ? 

Lap. Why, you grow younger and younger every day, 
Sir ; you never looked half so young in your life, Sir, as you 
do now. Why, Sir, I know fifty young fellows of five and 
twenty, that are older than you are. 

Love. That may,be, that may be, Lappet, considering the 
lives they lead ; and yet I am a good ten years above Jifty. 
D d 



314 LESSONS IN [Part 11 

Lap. Well, and what's ten years above fifty 1 Tis the 
very flower of a man's age. Why, Sir, you are now in the 
very prime of your life. 

Love. Very true, that's very true, as to understanding' ; 
but I ana afraid, could I take off twenty years, it would do 
me no harm with the ladies, Lappet. — How goes on our 
affair with Mariana ? Have you mentioned any thing about 
What her mother can give her 7 For nowadays nobody mar- 
ries a woman, unless she bring something with her besides 
a petticoat. 

Lap. Sir, why, Sir, this young lady will be worth to you 
as good a thousand pounds a year, as ever was told. 
t . Love. How ! A thousand pounds a year ? 

Lap. Yes, Sir. There's in the first place, the article of a 
table ; she has a very little stomach ; — she does not eat 
above an ounce in a fortnight ; and then, as to the quality 
of what s l ie eats : you'll have no need of a French cook 
upon her account. As for sweetmeats, she mortally hates 
them; so there is the article of desserts wiped off all at once. 
You'll have no need of a confectioner, who would be eternal- 
ly bringing in bills for preserves, conserves, biscuits, com- 
fits, and jellies, of which half a dozen ladies would sw dlow 
you ten pounds worth at a meal. This, I think, we may 
very moderately reckon at two hundred pounds a year at 
least.— For clothes, she has been bred up at such a plain- 
ness in them, that should we allow but for three birthright 
suits a year, saved, which are the least a town lady would 
expect, there go a good tw r o hundred pounds a year more.— 
For jewels (of which she bites the very sight) the yearly in- 
terest of what you must lay out in them would amount to 
one hundred pounds. — Lastly, she has an utter detestation 
for play, at which I have known several moderate ladies lose 
a good two thousand pounds a year. — Now r , let us take only 
the fourth part of that, which amounted to five hundred, to 
which if we add two hundred pounds on the table account, 
two hundred pounds in clothes, and one hundred pounds in 
jew r els — there is, Sir, your thousand pounds a year, in hard 
money. 

Love. Ay, ay, these are pretty things ; it must be con- 
fessed, very pretty things ; but there is nothing real irf 
them. 

Lap. How, Sir ! Is it not something real to bring you a 
vast store of sobriety, the inheritance of a love for simplicity 
of dress, and a vast acquired fund of hatred for play 1 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. 315 

Love. This is downright raillery, Lappet, to make me 
up a fortune out of the expenses she won't put me to. — - 
But there is another thing that disturbs me. You know 
this girl is young, and young people generally love one ano- 
ther's company ; it would ill agree with a person of my 
temper to keep an assembly for all the yoang rakes, and 
flaunting girls in town- 
Lap. Ah, Sir, how hiWe do you know of her ! This is 
another particularity that I had to toll you of;- — she has a 
most terrible aversion to young people, and loves none 
hut persons of your years. I would advise you, above all 
things, to take care not to appear too young. She insists 
on sixty at least She says that liity-six years are not able 
to content her. 

Love. This humour is a little strange, methinks. 

Lap. She carries it further,. Sir, than can be imagined. 
She has in her chamber several pictures ; but, what do you 
think they are 1 None of your smockfaced young fellows, 
your Adonises, your Parises, and your Apolloes : No, Sir, you 
see nothing* there, but your handsome figures of Saturn, 
king Priam, old Nestor, and good father Anchises upon his 
son's shoulders. 

Love. Admirable ! This is more than I could have hoped ; 
to say the truth, had I been a woman, I should never have 
kwec! young fellows. 

I believe yon : pretty sort of stuif, indeed, to be 
in love with your young fellows ! Pretty masters, indeed, 
with their fine complexions, and their tine feathers ! 

>ve. And do you really think me pretty tolerable 1 

Lav. . Tolerable ! You are ravishing : If your picture was 
drawn by a good hand, Sir. it would be invaluable ! Turn 
about a little, if you please — there, what can be more 
charming 1 Let me see you walk—there's a person for you ; 
tall, straight, free, and degagee : Why, Sir, you have no 
fault about you. 

Love. Not many — hem — hem — not many, I thank Hea- 
ven ; only a few rheumatic pains now and then, and a small 
catarrh that seizes me sometimes. 

Lap. Ah, Sir. chat's nothing ; your catarrh sits very well 
upon you, and you cough with a very good grace. 

Love. But tell me, what does Mariana say of my per- 
son : 

Lap. She has a particular pleasure in talking of it ; and 



316 LESSONS IN [Pah- II 

I assure you. Sir. I have not been backward, on all such 
occasions, to blazon forth your merit, and to make her sen- 
sible how advantageous a match you will be to her 1 

Love. You did very well, and I am obliged to you. 

Lap. But, Sir, I have a small favour to ask of you ; — I 
fiave a lawsuit depending, which I am on the very brink of 
losing, for want of a little money ; [He looks gravely] and 
you could easily procure my success, i( you had the least 
riendship for me. — You can't imagine, Sir, the pleasure 
me takes in talking of you : [He looks pleased] Ah ! How 
you will delight her, how your venerable mien will charm 
her ! She will never be able to withstand you. But in- 
deed, Sir, this lawsuit will be a terrible consequence to me : 
I He looks grave again] I am ruined if I lose it ; which a 
very small matter might prevent — ah ! Sir, had you but 
r^eon the raptures with which she heard me talk of you. 
I He reziimes his gaiety] How pleasure sparkled in her eyes 
sit the recital of your good qualities ! In short, io discover a 
secret to you, which I promised to conceal, I have worked 
up her imagination till she is downright impatient of having 
the match concluded. 

Love. Lappet, you have acted a very friendly part ; and 
I own that I have afl the obligations in the world to you. 

Lap. I beg you would give me this little assistance, Sir : 
[He looks sen' cue] It will set me on my ieet t and I shall be 
eternally obliged to you. 

Love. Farewell ; I'll go and finish my despatches. 

Lap. I assure you, Sir, you could never assist me in a 
greater necessity. 

Love. I must give some orders about a particular affair. 

Lap. I would not importune you. Sir, if I was not forced 
by the last extremity. 

Love. I expect the tailor, about turning my coat : — don't 
you think this coat will look well enough turned, and with 
new buttons, for a wedding suit 1 

Lap. For pitys sake, Sir, don't refuse me this small fa- 
vour : I shall be^ undone, indeed, Sir, If it were but so 
small a matter as ten pounds, Sir — 

Love. I think I hear the tailor's voice. 

Lap. If it were but [ive pounds, Sir ; but three pounds, 
Sir ; nay, Sir, a single guinea would be of service for a day 
or two. [As he offers to go out on either side, he intercepts 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. .>17 

Love. I must go, I can't stay—- — hark, there ! Some- 
body calls me — I am very much obliged to you, indeed ; I 
am very much obliged to you, [Exit. 

Lap. Go to the devil, like a covetous good for nothing 
villain as you are. Ramilie is in the right ; however, I 
shall not quit the affair ; for though I get nothing out of 
him, I am sure of my reward from the other side. 

VI.— Cardinal Wolsey and Croinzvell. 

Wol FAREWELL, a long farewell to all my greatness ! 
This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening, nips his shoot— 
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
These many summers in a sea of glory ; 
But far beyond my depth ; my high blown pride 
At length broke under me ; and now has left me, 
Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me. 
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye ! 
I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! 
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, 
That sweet regard of princes, and his ruin, 
More pangs and fears than war or women have ; 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again. [Enter Cromwell 

Why, how now, Cromwell ? 

Crom. I have no power to speak, Sir, 

Wol. What, amaz'd 
At my misfortunes 1 Can thy spirit wonder 
A great man should decline ? Nay, if you weep, 
I'm fallen indeed. 

Crom. How does your Grace ? 

Wol. Why, well ; 
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 
I know myself now, and I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities ; 
A still and quiet conscience. The king has eas'd me s 
I humbly thank his Grace ; and from these shoulders, ' 

D d2 " 



318 LESSONS IN' [Part II. 

These ruined pillars, out of pity taken 
A load would sink a navy, too much honour. 
Oh } 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden 
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven ! 

Cram. I'm glad your Grace has made that right use of it. 

IVol. I hope I have : I'm able, now, methinks, 
Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, 
T' endure more miseries, and greater far, 
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. 
What news abroad I 

Crom. The heaviest and the worst 
Is your displeasure with the king*. 

Wol. God bless him! 

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 
Lord Chancellor in your place, 

Wol. That's somewhat sudden • 

But he's a learned man. May he continue 

Long in his highness' favour, and do justice, 

For truth's sake, and his conscience ; that his bones, 

When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, 

May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him ! 

What more 1 

1 Crom, That Cranmer is returned with welcome ; 

Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Wol. That's news indeed ! 

Crom. Last, that the lady Anne, 
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, 
This day was view'd in open as his queen, 
Going to chapel ; and the voice is now 
Only about her coronation. 

Wol. There was the weight that pulled me down : O 
Cromwell ! 
The king has gone beyond me ; all my glories 
In that one woman I have lost for ever. 
No sun shall ever usher forth my honours, 
Or gild again the noble troops that waited 
Upon my smiles. Go get thee from me, Cromwell ; 
J am a poor fallen man, unworthy now 
To be thy lord and master : seek the king — 
(That sun, I pray, may never set !) I've told him 
What and how true thou art ; he will advance thee ; 
Borne littl© memory of me will stir him, 
(I know his noble nature) not to let 
Thy hopeful service perish too. _, Good Cromwell ; 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. 313 

Neglect him not ; make use new and provide 
For thine own future safety, 

Crom. Oh, my lord ! 
Must I then leave you 1 Must I needs forego 
So good, so noble, and so true a master 1 
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord ! 
The king shall have my service ; but my prayers, 
For ever and for ever shall be yours, 

Wol. Cromwell— I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries— but thou hast fere'd me, 
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman- — — 
Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; 
And, when I am forgotten, as I shall he, 
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
Of me must more be heard — say then I taught thee : 
Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory, 
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, 
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. 
Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me. 
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : 
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then. 
(Though the image of his Maker) hope to win by't I 
Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that wait thee : 
Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not. 
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, 
Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, 

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Servo the king 

And prithee lead me in — — 

There take an inventory of all I have ; 

To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe, 

And mine integrity to heaven is all 

I dare now call my own. Oh, Cromwell, Cromwell ! 

Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal 

I serv'd my king — he would not in mine age 

Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

Crom. Good Sir, have patience. 

Wol. So I have. Farewell 
The hopes of court ! My hopes in heaven do dwell. 



320 LESSONS IN [Part II. 

Vll. — Sir Charles and Lady Racket. 
Lady R. O LA ! I'm quite fatigued — I can hardly move 
-Why don't you help me, you barbarous man ? 



Sir C. There — take my arm- 



Lady R. But I won't be laughed at -I don't love you. 

Sir C. Don't you 1 

Lady R. No. Dear me ! This glove ! Why don't you 
help me off with my glove ? Pshaw ! You awkward thing ; 
let it alone ; you an't lit to be about me. Reach me a 

chair — you have no compassion for me 1 am so glad to 

sit dow r n — Why do you drag me to routs ? — You know I 
hate 'em. 

Sir C. Oh ! There's no existing, no breathing, unless 
one does as other people of fashion do. 

Lady R. But I'm out of humour — -I lost all my money. 

Sir C. How much ? 

Lady R. Three hundred. 

Sir C. Never fret for that — I don't value three hundred 
pounds, to contribute to your happiness. 

Lady R. Don't you 1 Not value three hundred pounds to 
please n>e 1 

Sir C. You know I don't. 

Lady R. Ah! You fond fool! — But I hate gaming^Ii 
almost metamorphoses a woman into a fury. — Do you know 
that I was frightened at myself several times to-night 1 I 
had a huge oath at the very tip of my tongue. 

Sir C. Had you ? 

Lady R. I caught myself at it — and so I bit my lips. 
And then I was crammed up in a corner of the room, with 
such a strange party, at a whist table, looking at black and 
red spots — Did you mind 3 em ? 

Sir C. You know I was busy elsewhere. 

Lady R. There was that strange unaccountable woman, 
Mrs. Nightshade. She behaved so strangely to her husband 
— a poor, inoffensive, good-natured, good sort of a good for 
nothing kind of a man. — But she so teased him — " How 
could you play that card ? Ah, you've a head, and so has a 
pin. — You're a numskull, you know you are — Ma'am he's 
the poorest h$ad in the world ;— he does not know what he 
is about ; you know you don't — Ah, fie ! I'm ashamed of 
you !" 

Sir C. She has served to divert you, I see. 

Lady R. And then to crown all there was my lady 

Claciit, who runs on with an eternal volubility of nothing, 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. 321 

out of all season, time, and place. In the very midst of the 

game, she begins — " Lard, Ma'am, I was apprehensive I 

should not be able to wait on your ladyship my poor 

little dog, Pompey- — the sweetest thing in the world ! — A 
spade led ! There's the knave.— I was fetching a walk, 
Me'em, the other morning in the Park—A fine frosty morn- 
ing it was. I love frosty weather of all things — let me look 

at the last trick— and so, Me'em, little Pompey — and if 

your ladyship was to see the dear creature pinched with the 
frost, and mincing his steps along the Mall— with his pretty 
little innocent face — I vow I don't know what to play. — And 
so, Me'em, while I was talking to Captain Flimsey— your 
ladyship knows Captain Flimsey. — Nothing but rubbish in 
my hand ! — I can't help it. — And so, Me'em, five odious 
frights of do<r,s beset my poor little Pompey — the dear crea- 
ture has the heart of a lion; but who can resist {ive at once? 
—And so Pompey barked for assistance— the hurt he re- 
ceived was upon his chest — the doctor would not advise him 
to venture out till the wound is healed, for fear of an inflam- 
mation. Pray what's trumps V 

Sir C. My dear, you'd make a most excellent actress. 

Lady R, Well, now, let's go to rest — but, Sir Charles, 
how shockingly you played that last rubber, when I stood 
looking over you ! 

Sir C. My leve, I played the truth of the game. 

Lady R. No indeed, my dear, you played it wrong. 

Sir C. Po ! Nonsense ! You don't understand it. 

Lady R. I he^ your pardon, I'm alloyed to play better 
than you. 

Sir C. All conceit, my dear ! I was perfectly right. 

Lady R. No such thing, Sir Charles ; the diamond was 
the play. 

Sir C. Po ! Po ! Ridiculous ! The club was the card, 
against the world. 

Lady R. Oh ! No, no, no — I say it was the diamond,. 

Sir C. Madam, I say it was the club. 

Lady R. What do you fly into such a passion for 1 

Sir C, Death and fury ! do you think I don't know what 
I'm about ? I tell you once more, the club was the judgment . 
of it. 

Lady R. May be so — hove it your own way. 

Sir C. Vexation! You're ih^ strangest woman that ever 
lived : there's no conversing with you.- — Look ye here, my 



$*£ LESSONS IN L rART II. 

lady Racket — 'tis the clearest case in the world — -I'll make 
it plain in a moment. 

Lady: R. Well, Sir ; ha, ha, ha ! 

Sir C, I had four cards left — a trump had led — they 
were six- no, no, no—they were seven, and we nine- 
then, you know — ; — the beauty of the play was to - 

Lady R. Well, now, 'tis amazing to me, that you can't 
see it. Give me leave, Sir Charles — your left hand adver- 
sary had led his last trump — and he had before finessed the 
club, and roughed the diamond — now ii you had put on 
your diamond— 

Sir C. But, Madam, we played for the odd trick. 

Lady R. And sure the play for the odd trick 

Sir C. Death and fury ! Can't you hear me ? 

Lady R. Go on, Sir. 

Sir C. Hear me, I say. Will you hear me 1 ' 

Lady R. I never heard the like in my life. 

Sir C. Why then you are enough to provoke the pa- 
tience of a Stoic. Very well, madam! You know no 
more of the game than your father's leaden Hercules on 
the top of the house. You know no more of whist than he 
does of gardening. 

Lady R. Ha, ha, ha ! 

Sir C. You're a vile woman, and I'll not sleep another 
night under one roof with you. 

Lady R. As you please, Sir. 

Sir. C^JMUidain, it shall he as I please — J']\ order my cha- 
riot this moment.— -[Going.] I know how the cards should 
he played as well as any man in England, that let me tell 
you— -\fkoing.] And when your family were standing be- 
hind counters measuring out tape, and bartering for White- 
chapel needles, my ancestors, my ancestors, Madam, were 
squandering away whole estates at cards ; whole estates, 
my lady Racket — [She hums a time] Why, then, by all 
that's dear te me, I 11 never exchange another word with 
you, good, had. or indifferent. Look ye, my lady Racket — 
thus it stood— — -the trump being led, it was then my busi- 



Lady R. To play the diamond, to be sure. 

Sir C. I have done with you for ever; and so you may 
tell your father. 

Lady R. What a passion the gentleman is in! Ha ! ha ! I 
promise him I'll not give up my judgment. 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING; 323 

Re-enter Sir Charles. 

5V r C. My lady Racket- — look'ye Ma'am, once more, out 
of pure good nature — 

Lady R. Sir, I am convinced of your good nature. 

Sir C, That, and that only, prevails with me to tell you, 
the club was the play. 

Lady R. Well, he it so — I have no objection. 

Sir C. 'Tis the clearest point in the world — ; — we were 
nine, and — 

Lady R. And for that very reason, you know the club 
was the best in the house. 

Sir C. There's no such thing as talking to you.- 



You're a base woman — r|I part with you for ever, you may 
live here with your father, and admire his fantastical ever- 
greens, till you grow as fantastical yourself — I'll set out for 
London this instant. — [Stops at the door] The club was not 
the best in the house. 

Lady R. How calm you are! Well, I'll go to bed. Will 
you come 1 You had better — Poor Sir Charles. 

[Looks and laughs, then exit.] 

Sir C. That case is provoking— [Crosses to the opposite 
door where she -went out] I tell you the diamond was not the 
play ; and hero I take my fmal leave of you — [Walks back 
as fast as he can] I am resolved upon it ; and I know the 
dab was not the best in the house, 

VIII. — Brutus and Cassius. 

Ca$. THAT you have wrong'd me doth appear in this ; _ 
You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella 
For taking bribes here of the Sar&ians ; 
Wherein pay letter (praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man) was slighted of. 

Bru. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case 

Cas. At such a time as this, is it not meet 
That every nice offence should bear its comment ? 

Bru. Yet let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm, 
To seli and mart your offices for gold, 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm 1 
You know that you are Brutus that speak this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. 

Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,. . ; 
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. 



324 f LESSONS IN. [Part II 

Cas. Chastisement 1 

Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember. 
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? 
What ! shall one of us, 

That struck the foremost man of all this world, 
But for supporting robbers ; Shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes 1 
And sell the mighty space of our large honours-, 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus 1 
I had rather be a dog and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Cas. Brutus, bay not me : 
Til not endure it. You forget yourself 
To hedge me in : I am a soldier, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself, 
To make conditions. 

Bru. Go to ! You are not, Cassius. 
Cas. I am. 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Cas. Urge me no more : I shall forget myself: 
Have mind upon your health : tempt me no farther. 
Bru. Away, slight man ! 
•Cas. Is't possible ! 
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler 'I 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 
Cas. Must I endure all this ! 
Bru. All this ! Ay, more. Fret till your proud heartbreaks. 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? 
Must I observe you 1 Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humour ! 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, 
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 
Cas. Is it come to this 7 
Bru. You say you are a better soldier ; 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well. For my own part 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way ; you wrong me, Brutus ; 
I said an elder soldier, not a better. 
Did I say better ? 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING, 82ft 

Bru, If you did I care not. 

Cas. When Caesar liv'd he durst not thus have mov'd me. 

Bru. Peace, peace ; you durst not so have tempted him 

Cas. I durst not ! 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What ! Durst not tempt him ! 

Bru. For your life you durst not, 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love, 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror. Cassius, in your threats ; 
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty, 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; 
I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants, their vile trash, 
By any indirection. I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions ; 
Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius ? . 
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, 
DashT him in pieces. 

Cas. I denied you not, 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not he was but a fool 
That brought my answer back. Brutus hath riv'd my heart. 
A friend should bear a friend's infirmities ; 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are, 

Era. I do not. Still you practise them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults, 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Bru. A fb + terer's would not; though they did appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Coiae Anthony ! and young Octavius, come! 
Revenge yourselves alone ^n Cassius : 
For Cassius is a-weary of the world — : — \ 
Hated by one he loves ; bi bis brother ; 

Check'd like ■ bondman ; all his faults observ'd, 

Set in a note book, learn' d and cona'd, by rote 

- Ee — 



3^>6 LESIONS IN [Part XL 

To cast into my teeth. There is my daggetf, 

And here my naked breast— — ^within, a lieart 

Dearer than Piutus' mine, richer than gold ; 

If that thou need'st a Roman's, take it forth : 

I that denied thee gold, will give my heart. 

Strike as thou didst at Cassar ; for I know, 

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better 

Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius. 

Bru. Sheath your dagger. 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope, 
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. 
O Cassius ! You are yoked with a lamb, 
That carries anger as the flint bears lire ; 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 

Cas. Hath Cassius liv'd 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief and blood iil-temper'd vexeth him ! 

Bru, When I spoke that, I was ill-temper 'd too. 

Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand, 

Bru. And mv heart tQd.^[^Embracing.'\ 

Cas. O Brutus ! 

Bru. What's the matter ? 

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, 
When the rash humour which my mother gave me, 
Makes me forgetful 1 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and from henceforth, 
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. 



II. —SPEECHES AND SOLILOQUIES. 

I. — Hamlet's Advice to the Players. 

SPEAK the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to 
you ; trippingly on the tongue. But i{ you mouth it, as 
many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier had spo- 
ken my lines. And do not saw the air too much with your 
hands ; but use ail gently : For in the very torrent, tempest, 
and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must ac- 
quire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. 
Oh ! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious, peri- 
wig pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. 327 

split the ears of the groundlings ; who, (for the most part) 
are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and 
noise. Pray you avoid it. 
v Be not too tame, neither; Tout let your own discretion be 
your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the 
action ; with this special observance, that you o'er step not 
ike modesty of nature ; for any thing so overdone is from the 
purpose of playing : whose end is — to hold as 'twere, the 
mirror up to nature ; to show virtue her own feature, scorn 
her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his; 
form and pressure. Now. this overdone, or come tardy off, 
though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the 
judicious grieve ; the censure of one of which must, in your 
allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh ! There 
be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, 
and that highly, that, neither having the accent of Christian, 
nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have *so strutted 
and bellowed, that I have thought some of Nature's journey- 
men had made men, and not made them well, they imitated 
humanity so abominably. 

II.— Douglas' Account of Himself. 

MY name is Norval. On the Grampian hills 
My father feeds his flocks ; a frugal swain, 
Whose constant cares were to increase his store, 
And keep his only son, myself, at home. 
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd 
To follow to the field some warlike lord ; 
And heaven soon granted what my sire denied. 
This moon which rose last night, round as my shield, 
Had not yet filTd her horns, when by her light, 
A band of fierce barbarians, from the mils, 
Rush'd like a torrent, down upon the vale, 
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled ,i 

For safety and for succour. I alone, 
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, 
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd 
The road he took ; then hastened to my friends, 
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, 

net advancing. The pursuit I led, 

! we o'ertook the spoihencumber'd foe. 
We fought and conquer'ej. Ere a sword was drawn, 
An arrow from my bow had piere'd their chief, 
Who wore that day the arms which now I wean 
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd 

e shepherd's slothful life ; and having heard 
That our good king had summqn'd his bold peers', 
To lead their wamors tc the Carron side, 



MB LESSONS IN [Part II. 

J left tiny father's house, and took with me 
A chosen servant, to oenduct my steps — 
Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master. 
Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers, 
Vnd, heaven directed, came this day to do 
The happy deed that gilds my humble name. 

Ill — Douglas 1 Account of the Hermit. 

BENEATH a mountain's brow, the most remote 
And inaccessible, by shepherds trod, 
In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, 
A hermit liv'd ; a melancholy man, 
Who was the wonder of our wandering swains. 
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, 
Did they report him ; the cold earth his bed, 
Waier his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. 
I went to see him ; and my heart was touch'd 
With rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake ; 
And, entering on discourse, such stories told, 
As,made me oft revisit his sad cell, 
For he had been a soldier in his youth; 
And fought in famous battles, when the peers 
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led, 
Against th' usurping infidel displayed 
The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land: 
Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire 
His speech struck from me, the old man would shake 
His years away, and act his young encounters : 
Then, having shovv'd his wounds, he'd sit him down, 
And all the live-long d'.iy discourse cfwar. 
To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf 
He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts ; 
Describ'd the motions-, and exphtjs'd the use 
Of the deep column and the lengthen'd line, 
The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm ;'• 
For all that Saracen or Christian knew 
Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known. 

IV. — Sempronidj" Speech/or War. 



MY voice 


' ; ; still for war. 




Godtf,1 Can a 


, Roman senate 


long debate', 


Which of the 


: two to choose, 


slavery or deatn't 


No—let us ri 


se at once, gird 


on our swords, 



And, at the head of our remaining troops, 

Attack the foe, break through the thick array 

Of his throng'd legions, and charge home upon him.. 

Perhaps some arm more lucky than the rest. 

May reach Lis heart, and free the world from bondage. 

Rise, Fathers, rise ; 'tis Rome demands your help: 

Rise and revenge hei slaughter^ citizen-, 

Or share their fate. The corpse of half her senate 

Manure the fields of Thessaly, while ws 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. S2§ 

Sit here, deliberating in cold debates, 

Jf we should sacrifice our lives to honour/ 

Or wear them out in servitude and chains. 

Rouse up. for shame ! Our brothers of Pharsalia 

Point out their wounds, and cry aloud, To battle : 

Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, 

And Scipio's ghost walks unreveng'd among us. 

V, — Lucius' Speech for Peace. 

MY thoughts, I must confess, are turji'd on peace-;. 
Already have our quarrels fili'd the world 
With widows and with orphans : Scythia mourns 
Our guilty wars, and earth's remotest regions 
Lie half unpeopled by the feuds of Rome . 
'Tis time to sheath the sword, and spare mankind. 
'Tis not Caesar, but the gods, my Fathers ! 
The gods declare against us, and repel 
Our vain attempts. To urge the foe to battle 
(Prompted by blind revenge and wild despair) 
Were to refute trf awards of Providence, 
And not to rest in heaven's determination. 
Already have we shown our love to Rome : 
Now let us show submission to the gods. 
We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves, 
But free the commonwealth. When this end fails, 
Arms have no further use. Our country's cause, 
That drew cur swords, now wrests them from our hands. 
And bids us not delight in Roman blood 
Unprofitably shed. What men could do, 
Is done already. Heaven and earth will witness, 
If Rome must fall, that we are innocent, 

VI.— Hotspur's Account of the Fop, 

MY liege, I did deny no prisoners. 
But I remember, when the figbt was done, 
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, * 

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 
Came there a certain lord ; neat ; trimly drsss'd ; 
Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reap'd, 
Showd like a stubble land, at harvest heme. 
He was perfum'd like a milliner ; 
And, ? twixt his finder and his thumb, he held 
A pouncet box, which, ever and anon, 

He gave his nose. « 

And still he smil'd and talk'd : 
And, as the aoldieis bare dead bodies by, 
He call'd them u untaught knaves, unmannerly, 
To bring a slovenly unhandsome ooise 
Betwix^ the wind and his nobility." 
With many holiday and lady terms 
- ; He question'd me ; among the res", demanded * 

My prisoners, in your Majesty's behalf! 

Ee2 * 



130 LESSONS IN [Part IT. 

I tlimij all smarting with my wounds, being gall'd 
To be so pester'd with a popinjay, 
Out of my grief and my impatience, 
Answer'd — negligently — I know not what — 
■ He should or should not ; for he made me mad, 
To see him shine so brisk,, and smell so sweet, 
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman, 
Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (heaven save the mark) 
And telling me, the sovereign's! thing on earth 
Was spermaceti for an in word bruise ; 
And that it was a great pity, (so it was) 
This viUarous saltpetre should be digg'd 
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd 
So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns, 
He would himself have been a soldier. 
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, 
I answer'd indirectly, as I said ; 
And I beseech yen, let not this report 
Come current for an accusation, 
Betwixt my love, and your high Majesty. 

YII. — Hotspur's Soliloquy on the contents of a Letter. 

t: BUT, for mine own part; my Lord, I could be well 
contented to be there in respect of the love I bear your 
house." — He could be contented to be there ! Why is he 
not then 1 In respect of the love he bears our house 1 He 
shows in this, he loves his own barn better than he loves 
our house. Let me see some more. " The purpose you 
undertake is dangerous."— -Why that's certain : 'tis danger- 
ous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink : but I tell yon, my 
lord Fool, out cf this nettle danger, we pluck this flow^er 
safely. "The purpose you undertake is dangerous; the 
friends you have named, uncertain ; the time itself, unsort- 
ed ; and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so 
great an opposition."— Say you so, say you so 1 I say unto 
you again, yon are a shallow cowardly hind, and you lie. 
What a iackbrain is this! Oar plot is as good a plot as ever 
was laid ; our friends true and constant ; a good plot, good 
friends, and full of expectation ; an excellent plot, very 
good friends. What a frosty-spirited rogue is this ! Why, 
my lord of York commends the plot, and the general course 
of the action. By this hand, if I were now by this rascal, I 
would brain him with his lady's fan. Is there not my fa- 
ther, my uncle, and myself: Lord Edmund Mortimer, my 
lord of York, and Owen Glendower ? Is there not, besides, 
the Douglasses 1 Have I not all their letters, to meet mg in 



Sect. V.]. SPEAKING, _ 331 

arms hy the ninth of the ii'\xt month 1 and ore there not 
some of them set forward already 1 What a pagan rascal is 
this ! an infidel ! — Ha ! you shall see now, hi very sincerity 
of fear and cold heart, will he to the king, and lay open all 
our proceedings. Oh I I could divide myself and go to 
bunet^, for moving such a dish of skimmed milk with so 
honourable an action— Hang him ! let him tell the king, 
We are prepared. I will set forward to-night. 



VIII. — Othello's Apology fcr his Marriage, 

MOST potent, grave, and reverend seigniors: 
My very noble and approved good masters : 
That T have ta'en away this old man's daughter, 
it is most true ; true, I have married her : 
The very head and front oFmy offending 
Hath this extent ; no more. Kudo am I in speech. 
And little bless'd with the set phrase of peac* 3 • 
For since these arm:; of mine had seven years' pith. 
Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have us'd 
Their dearest action in the *ented field ; 
And little of this sjeat world can I speak, 
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle ;. 
And therefore, little shall I grace my cause, 
In speaking of myself. Yet by your patience, 
I will a round unvarnish'd talc deliver, 
Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, 
What conjuration, and what mighty magic, 
(For such proceedings I am charged withal) 
I won his daughter wir : ;. 

Her father iov'd me : oft invited me ; 
Still questional me the story of my life, 
From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes, 
That I had past. 

I ran it through, e'en from my boyish davs 
To the very moment that he bade me tell it. 
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances ; 
Of moving accidents by flood and field ; 
Of hair-breadth 'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach ; 
Of being taken by the insolent foe, 
And sold to slavery : of my redemption thence, 
And with it ail my travel's history. 

—All these to hear 

Would Desdemona seriously incline ; 
But still the house affairs would draw her theno^ ; 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 
Devour up my discourse. Which I observing, 
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, 
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate ; 



332 LESSONS IN [Part IT. 

Whereof by parcels she l?ad .something heard, 

But not distinctly: I did consent : 

And often did beguile her of her tears, 

When I did speak of some distressful stroke' 

That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, 

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs. 

She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange : 

'Tvvas pitiful ; 'twas wondrous pitiful ; 

She wish'd she had not heard it ; yet she wish'd 

That heaven had made her such a man. She thank' d me ; 

And bade me, if I had a friend that lov'd her, 

I should but teach him how to tell my story, 

And that would woo her. On this hint I spake ; 

She lov'd me for the dangers I had passed y 

And I lov'd her that she did pity them. — 

This only is the witchcraft I have us'd. 

IX. — Henry Wis Soliloquy on Sleep. 

HOW many thousands of my poorest subjects 
Are at this hour asleep ! — O gentle sleep ! 
Nature's soft nurse I how have I frighted thee, 
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, 
And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? 
Why rather, Sleep, ] jest thou in smoky cribs, 
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, 
And hush'd with buzzing night flies to thy slumber, 
Than in the perfirm'd chambers of the great, 
Under the canopies of costly state, 
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? 
O thou dull god ! Why liest thou with the vile, 
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch 
A waichcasc to a common 'larum bell ? 
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast, 
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 
In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 
And hi the visitation of the winds, 
Who take the ruffian billows by the tops, 
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
With deaf'ning clamours in the sllpp'ry shrouds, 
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ; 
Canst thou, O partial sleep ? give thy repose 
To the wet sea boy in an hour so rude, 
And in the calmest and the stillest night, 
With ajl appliances and means to boot, 
Deny it to a king*? — Then happy, lowly clown ! 
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 

X.— Captain BobadiVs Method of defeating an Army. 

I WILL tell you, Sir, by the way of private and under 
seal, I am a gentleman ; and live here obscure, arid to my- 
self: but were I known to his Majesty and the Lords, ob- 
serve me, I would undertake, upon this poor head and life, 



Sect, v.] SPEAKING. 333 

for the public benefit of the state, not only to spare the en- 
tire lives of his subjects in general, but to save the one half, 
nay. three-fourths of his yearly charge in holding war, and 
against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think 
you I Why thus, Sir. — I would select nineteen more to my- 
self; throughout the land ; gentlemen they should be ; of 
good spirit, strong and able constitution. I would choose 
them hy an instinct that I have — And I would teach these 
nineteen the special rules ; as yctir punto, your reverse, 
your stoceata, your imhrccata. your passada, your merit on- 
to, till they could all play very near, or altogether, as well 
as myself. This done ; say the enemy were forty thousand 
strong. We twenty would come into the field the tenth of 
March, or thereabouts, and wc would challenge twenty of 
the enemy ; they could not, in their honour refuse as. 
II — we would kill them ; challenge twenty more — kill 
m ; twenty more — kill them ; twenty more- — kill them 
too. And thus, would we kill, every man, his ten a day — 
that's tenscore : Tenscore — that's two hundred ; two hun- 
dred a day — rive days, a thousand : Forty thousand— forty 
times five— five times forty — two hundred days kill them 
all up by computation. And this I will venture my poor 
gentleman-like carcass to perform, (provided there be no 
treason practised upcn us) by fair and discreet manhood ; 
that is, civilly- — by the sword. 

~KI.— Soliloquy of Hamlet's U.icle, on the Murder of his 
£rc. 

Oil ! Hfy offence is rank : it smells to heaven ; 
h the prima], eldest curse, upon it ! 

A brother's murder ! Pray I cannot, 

Though inclination be as sharp as 'twill — 

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent ; 

And like a man to double business bound, 

I stand irt pause where I sball first begin — 

And both neglect. What if this cursed hand 

Were thicker than itself with brother's blood — 

Is there not rain enough in the swegiHieavens 

To wash it white as snow ? Whereto serves mercy. 

But to confront the 'visage of offence ? 

And what's in prayer, but this twofold force ? 

^stalled ere we come to fall- — 
Or pnrdon'J. being down ? — Then I'll look up, 
My ianlt is past. — But, Oh J what form of prayer 
Can serve vaj turn ? Forgive me my foul murder. 
That cann I tl possess'd 

Of those ejects for which I did the murder — 
My crew? 1 , my own ambition, and my queen, 



LESSONS IN [Part II. 

May one be pardon'd, and retain th' offence ? 

In the corrupted current*; of tins world, 

Offence's gilded hand may shove by justice : 

And oft 'tis seen, the wicked prize itself 

Buys out the laws. But 'tis not so above. 

There is no shuffling — there the action lies 

In its true nature, and we ourselves compell'd 

E'en to the teeth and forehead of our faults, 

To give in evidence. What then ? What rests ? 

Try what repentance can. What can it not? 

Yet what can it, vyhetj one cannot repent? 

Oh, wretched state ! Oh, bosom black as death ! 

Oh, limited soul, that, struggling to be free, 

Art more eng ig'd ! Help, angels, make assay ! 

Bow, stubborn knees — and heart, with strings of steel, 

Be soft as sinews of the new born babe ! 

AH may be well. 



XI L— Soliloquy of Hdmlet on Death. 

TO be — or not to be — that is the question • 
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune — 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles ; 
And, by opposing, end therh ? To die — to sleep- — 
No more ? — and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to. — 'Tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die — to sleep — 
To sleep — perchance to dream-— ay, there's the rub— 
For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, 
When we have shuffled offthis mortal c*»il, 
Must give us pause. — ^here's the respect, 
That makes calamity of so long life ; 
For, who could bear the whips and scorns of time, 
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 
The pangs of despised love — the law's delay — 
The insolence of office, and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes — 

he himself might hts quietus make 
With a hare bodkin r Who would fardels bear, 
To groan an4 sweat under a weary life, 
But that the dread of something after <ieath, 
(That undiscover'd country, firm whose bourn 
No traveller returns) puzzles the will, 
And makes us rather bear those ills we have, 
Than fly to others that we know not of? 
Tims conscience does make cowards of us all; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with ..he pah 1 cast of thought; 
And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
With this regard, their < urr< nts turn away, 
And lose the name of action. 



Sect. V.j SPEAKING. 335 

XIII.— Falstaf's Enccinium oft Sack. 

A GOOD sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It 
ascends me into the brain : dries me there, all the foolish, 
dull and crudy vapours which environ it : makes it appre- 
hensive, quick, inventive : full of nimble, fiery, and delecta- 
ble shapes ; which delivered over to the voice, the tongue, 
which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second 
property of your excellent sherris, is the warming of the 
blood; which, before, cold and settled, left the liver white 
and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and cowardice. 
But the sherris warms it. and makes it course from the ih- 
w-;rds to the parts extreme. It illuminate th the face; 
which, as a beacon, gives warning to all the rest of this 
little kingdom, man, to arm : and then, the vital common- 
ers, and inland petty spirits, muster me ail to their captain, 
the heart ! who, great and pmTed up with this retinue, doth 
any deed of courage — and this valour comes of sherris. 
So that skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that 
sets it a work ; and learning a mere hoard of gold kept by 
a devil, till sack commences it, and sets it in act and use. 
Hereof comes it that Prince Harry is valiant ; for the cold 
blood he did naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like 
lean, steril, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and tilled, 
with drinking good, and good store of fertile sherris. If I 
had a thousand sons, the first human principle I would 
teach them, should be — to forswear thin potations, and to 
addict themselves to sack. 

XIV. — Prologue to the Tragcdij cf Cato. 

TO wake the soul by tender strokes of art, 
To raise the genius and to mend the heart, 
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, 
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold ; 
For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, 
Commanding tears to stre?m through every age 5 
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, 
And foes to virtue, wonder'd hew ihey wept. 
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move 
The hero's glory or the virgin's love : 
In pitying love we bjc our weakness show, 
And wild ambition well deserves its wo. 
Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause ; 
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws : 
He bids your breast with ancient ^.rdours rise, 
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes r 



336 LESSONS IN [Part IL 

Virtue confessed in human shape he draws, 

What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was ; 

No common object to your sight displays, 

But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys ; 

A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, 

And greatly falling with a falling state ! 

While Cato gives his little senate laws, 

What bosom beats not in his country's cause ? 

Who see3 him act, but envies every deed ? 

Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed ? 

E'en when proud Ciesar, 'midst triumphal cars, 

The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, 

Ignobly vain, and irnpotently great, 

Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state ; 

As her dead father's rev'rend image pass'd, 

The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast, 

The triumph ceas'd — tears gush'd from every eye; 

The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by ; 

Her last good man, dejected Rome ador'd, 

And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword. 

Britons attend. Be worth like this approved } 
And show you have the virtue to be mcv'd. 
With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd 
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd. 
Our scene precariously subsists too long 
On French translation, and Italian song. 
Dare to have sense yourselves : assert the stage : 
Be justly .warm'd with your own native rage. 
Such plays alone should please a British ear, 
As Cato's self had not disdaiird to hear. 



XV. — Cato's Soliloquy on the Immortality of the Soul. 

IT must be so — Plato, thou reasonest well ! — 
Else, whence this pleasing hone, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality ? 
Or, whence this secret dread and inward horror, 
Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
5 Tis the divinity that stirs within us : 
J Tis heav'n itself that points out an hereafter, 
And intimates eternity to man. 
Eternity ! — Thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 
Through what variety of untry'd being, 
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! 
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me : 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us, 
'And that there is, all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works) he must delight in virtue ; 
And that which he delights in must be happy. 
But when ? or where ? This world was made for Csssar ; 
I'm weary of conjectures — this must end them. 

{Laying kis hand on his stoord. 



Sect. V.] S$MS$M 3P 

Thus I am doubly arm' d. My death and life. 

My bane and antidote are both before me. 

This, in a moment, brings me to an end ; ^ 

But this informs me I shall never die. 

The soul, secur'din her existence, smiles 

At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 

Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 

But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth ; 

Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 

The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 

XVL— Lady Randolph's Soliloquy, lamenting the Death of 
her Husband and Ctvild. 

YE woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom 
Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth 
The voice of sorrow From my bursting heart — — - 
Farewell a while, I will not leave you long : 
For, in your shades, I deem some spirit dwells ; 
Who, from the chiding stream, and groaning oak, 
Still hears arid answers to Matilda's moan. 
Oh, Douglass ! Douglass! if departed ghosts 
Are e'er permitted to review this world, 
Within the circle of that wood thou art ; 
And with the passion of immortals hear'st 
My lamentation ; hear'st thy wretched wife 
Weep for her husband slain, her infant lost. 
My brother's timeless death I seem to mourfr, 
Who perish'd with thee on this fatal day. 
To thee I lift my voice, to thee address 
The plaint which mortal ear has never heard. 
Oh ! Disregard he not. Though I am call'd 
Another's now, my heart is wholly thine. 
Incapable of change, atfection lies 
Buried, my Douglass, in thy bloody grave, 

XVII.— ^Speech of Henry V. to his Soldiers , at the Siege of 
Harfleur. 

ONCE more unto the breach, dear friends, once niorCj 
Or close the wall up with the English dead. 
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man 
As modest stillness and humility ; 
But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
Then imitate the action of the tiger \ ■' . 

StifFen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
Disgaiie fair nature with hard favour'd rage : 
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect : 
Let it pry o'er fie portage of the head 
Like the brass cannon ; let the. brow o'erwheto %. 
And fearfully as doth the galled rock 
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
Swiil'd with the wild and wasteful oceaia, 
Ff 



338 LESSONS trf [Part It 

Now get the teeth, and stretch the nostrils wide ; 

Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 

To its full height. Now on, you noblest English, 

Whose blood is feteh'd from fathers of war-proof : 

Fathers, that like so many Alexanders, 

Have in these parts from morn till even fought, 

And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument. 

Dishonour not your mothers ; now attest 

That those whom you call fathers did beget you. 

Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen, 

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 

The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear 

That you are worth your breeding ; which I doubt not ; 

For there is none of you so mean and base, 

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot ; 

Follow your spirit ; and, upon this charge, 

Cry, God for Harry, England, and St. George ! 

XVIII. — Speech of Henry V. before the Battle of JigincourU 
on the Earl of Westmoreland '$ wishing for more Men from 

England. 

WHAT'S he that wishes more men from England ? 
My cousin Westmoreland ? No, my fair cousin , 
Ii* we are marked to die, we are enow 
To do our country loss ; and if to live, 
The fewer men, the greater share of honour. 
No, no, my Lord ; wish not a man from England. 
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my h t t 
That he who hath no stomach to this fight, 
May straight depart 5 his passport shall be itiade 3 
And crowns, for convoy, put into his purse. 
We would not die in that man's company. 
This day is called the feast of Crispian. 
He that outlives this day, and come safe home* W 

Will stand a tiptoe, when this day is aani'd. 
And rouse him at the name of Crispian. **-■. 

He that outlives this day, and sees old age* 
Will, yearly, on the vigil, feast his neighbours* 
\nd say, to-morrow is St. Crispian : 
fhen wilj he strip his sleeve, and show his scars* , 

Old men forget, yet shall not all forget. £ 7 ; * 

#ut they'll remember, with advantages, "~ v '"£ 

What feajs they did that day. Then shall our name^ M 
Familiar in their mouths as household words, 
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, 
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster, 
Be in their flowing cups, freshly remember'd. 
This story shall the good man teach his sob : » v 

And Caspian's day ©hall ne'er go by, 9 ?, 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. 3£9 

From this time to the ending of the worfd, 

But we and it shall be remembered ; 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers ;- 

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me, 

Shall be my brother, be he e'er so vilo. 

This day shall gentle his condition, 

And gentlemen in England, now abed, 

Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here; 

And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks 

That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day. 

XIX — Soliloquy of Dick the Apprentice, 

THUS far we run before the wind. — An apothecary ! — 

Make an apothecary of me ! What, cramp my genius 

over a pestle and mortar ; or mew me up in a shop, with an 
alligator stuffed, and a beggarly account of empty boxes ! 
To be culling simples, and constantly adding to the bills of 
mortality ! — No ! No ! It will be much better to be pasted 
up in capitals, The part of Romeo by a young gen- 
tleman WHO NEVER APPEARED ON ANY STAGE BEFORE ! 

My ambition fires at the thought.— But hold ; mayn't I run 
some chance of failing in my attempt T Hissed — pelted — 
laughed at — not admitted into the green room ; — that will 
never do — down, busy devil, down, down ; try it again- 
loved by the women — envied by the men — applauded by the 
pit, clapped by the gallery, admired by the boxes. " Dear 
colonel, is'nt he a charming creature ? My lord, don't you 
like him of all things 1 — Makes love like an angel ? — What 

an eye he has ! — —Fine legs !— 1 shall certainly go to his 

benefit." Celestial sounds ! And then I'll get in with 

all the painters, and have myself put up in every print-shop 
— in the character of Macbeth ! "This is a sorry sight." 
(Stands in an attitude.) In the character of Richard, "Give 
me another horse! Bind up my wounds!" These will do 
rarely. -And then I have a chance of getting well mar- 
ried.- Oh glorious thought ! I will enjoy it, though but 

in fancy. But what's o'clock ! — it must be almost nine. 
I'll away at once ; this is club night— the spouters are all 
met — little think they I'm in town — they'll be surprised to 

see me off I go ; — and then for my assignation with my 

master Gargle's daughter. *~ 

Limbs, do your office, and support me well ; 
Bear me but to her, then fail me if you can. 



im$ LESSONS m [Part II 



XX. — Cassius instigating Brutus to join the Conspiracy 

against Ccesar. 

HONOUR is the subject of my stoiy. — > 
I cannot tell what you and other men 
Think of this life ; but for my single self, 
I had as lief not be, as live to be 
la awe of such a thing as I myself. 
I was born free as Caesar ; so were you : 
We both have fed as well: and we can both 
Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
For once upon a raw and gusty day, 
The troubled Tiber chafing with his shores, 
Caesar says to me, " Dar'st thou, Cassius, now 
Leap in with me into this angry flood, 
And swim to yonder point ?" — Upon the word, 
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, 
And bade him follow ; so indeed he did. 
The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it 
With lusty sinews throwing it aside, 
And stemming it w T ith hearts of controversy. 
But ere we could arrive at the point piopos'd, 
Caesar cry'd, " Help me, Cassius, or I sink." 
J, as iEneas, our great ancestor, 
Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 
The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber, 
Did I the tired' Caesar ; and this" man 
Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 
A wretched creature, and must bend his body 
If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 
He had a fever when he was in Spaing 
And when the fit was on hirau I cud mark 
How he did shake : 'tis irtrie ; this god did shake : 
His coward lips did from their colour fty ; 
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, 
Did lose its lustre ; I did hear hiito groan : 
Ay, and that tongue ofius that bade the Romans 
Mark him and write his speeches in their books, 
" Alas !" it crv'd — " Give me some drink, Titinius ,r — - 
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me^ 
A man of such a feeble temper should 
So get the start of the majestic world, 
And bear the palm alone. — — - 
Brutus and Oassar I What should be in that Caesar? 
Why should that name be sounded more than you,*s? 
Write them together ; yours is as fair a name : 
Sound them ; it doth become the mouth as well : 
Weigh them ; it is as heavy : conjure with 'em ; 
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. 
Now in the name of all the gods at once, 
Upon what meats doth this our Caesar feed, 
That he has grown so great ? Age, thou art ashan}'d ; 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. 34! 

Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods. 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, 
But it was fam'd with more than with one man ? 
When could they say, till now, that talked of Rome, 
That her wide walls encompassed but one man ? 
Oh ! you and I have heard our fathers say, 
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd 
Th' infernal devil, to keep his state in Rome, 
As easily a9 a king. 

XXL- — Brutus 3 Harangue on the Death qfCcesar. 

ROMANS, Countrymen, and Lovers ! — Hear me for 
my cause ; and be silent that you may hear. Believe me 
for mine honour ; and have respect to mine honour, that you 
may believe. Censure me in your wisdom ; and awake your 
senses, that you may the better judge. — If there be any in 
this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him, I say, 
that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his. If, then, 
that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is 
my answer : Not that I loved Cagsar less, but that I loved 
Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all 
slaves ; than that Caesar were dead, to live all freemen ? As 
Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I re- 
joice at it ; as he was valiant, I honour him ; but as he was 
ambitious, I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy for 
his fortune, honour for his valour, and death for his ambi- 
tion.— -Who's here so base that would be a bondman 1 if any, 
speak ; for him I have offended. Who's here so rude, that 
would not be a Roman ? if any, speak * for him I have of- 
fended. Who's here so vile, that will not love his country ? 
if any, speak ; for him I have offended. — I pause for a re- 
ply * 

None ! Then none have I offended. — t have done no more 
to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of 
his death is enrolled in the capitol ; his glory not extenu- 
ated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforced, 
for which he suffered death. 

Here comes his body, mourn'd by Mark Antony ; who, 
though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the bene- 
fit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth ; as which 
of you shall not ? — With this I depart— that as I slew my 
best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger 
for myself, when it shall please my country to need my 
death. 



342 LESSONS IN [Part II 



XXII.— Antony's Oration over Caesar's Body. 

FRIENDS, Romans, Countrymen ! Lend me your ears. 
I come to bury Csesar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do, lives after them ; 
The good is oft interred with their bones ; 
So let it be with Caesar ! Noble Brutus 
Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious. 
If it were so, it was a grievous fault ; 
And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it, 
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, 
(For Brutus is an honourable man, 
So are they all, all honourable men) 
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me i 
But Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honourable man. 
He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept ! 
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honourable man. 
You all did see, that, on the Lupercal, 
I thrice presented him a kingly crown ; 
Which he did thrice refuse : Was this ambition ? 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And sure, he is an honourable man. 
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke ; 
But here I am to speak what I do know. 
You all did love him once ; not without cause ; 
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him ? 
O judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, 
And men have lost tb^ir reason. Bear with me ; 
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar ; 
And I must pause till it come back to me. 

But yesterday the word, Caesar, might 
Have stood against the world ! Now lies he there # 
And none so poor to do hkn reverence. 

Masters ! If I were dispos'd to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong ; 
Who, you all know, are honourable men. 

I will not do them wrong—I rather choose 

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, 

Than I will wrong such honourable men. 

But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar j 

I found it in his closet : 'tis his will. 

Let but the commons hear this testament, 

(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read) 

And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING. 343 

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood — 
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, 
And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 

Unto their issue. 

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 
You all do know this mantle : I remember 
The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 
'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent, 

That day he overcame the Nervii 

Look ! In this place ran Cassius' dagger through- 
See what a rent the envious Casca made 

Through this the well beloved Brutus stabb'd j 

And, as he pluck' d his cursed steel away, 

Mark how the blood of Caesar follow 'd it ! 

This, this was the unkindest cut of all ! 

For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, 

Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms, 

Quite vanquished him ! Then burst his mighty heart, 

And in his mantle muffling up his face, 

E'en at the base of Pompey's statue, 

(Which all the while ran blood) great Ceesar fell. 

what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down ; 
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. 
O, now you weep ; and I perceive you feel 
The dint of pity ! These are gracious drops. 
Kind souls ! What, weep you when you beheld 
Our Ccesar's vesture wounded ? Look ye here ! — 
Here is himself— marr'd, as you see. by traitors. 

Good friends ! Sweet friends ! Let me not stir you up 
To any sudden flood of mutiny ! 
They that have done this deed are honourable ! 
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, 
That made them do it ! They are wise and honourable^ 
And will, no doubt, with reason answer you. 

1 come not, friends, to steal away your hearts 1 
I am no orator, as Brutus is ; 

But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man, 

That love my friend — and that they know full well, 

That gave me public leave to speak of him ! 

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 

Action, nor utterance, nor power of speech, 

To stir men's blood — I only speak right on. 

I tell you that which you yourselves do know — 

Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor, dumb mouthy 

And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus, 

And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 

Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 

In every wound of Caesar, that should move 

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny, 



344 LESSONS IN [Part H. 

XXIII. — Fahtaff's Soliloquy on Honour. 
OWE heaven a death ! 'Tis not due yet ; and I would 
be loath to pay him before his day. What need I be so for- 
ward with him that calls not on me ? Well, 'tis no matter — 
honour pricks me on. But how, if honour pricks me off when 
I come on ? How then ? Can honour set to a leg ? No ; or an 
arm ? No ; or take away the grief of a wound 1 No. Honour 
hath no skill in surgery, then 1 No. What is honour 7 A 
word. What is that word honour 1 Air ; a trim reckoning. 
Who hath it ? He that died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? 
No. Doth he hear it 7 No. Is it insensible then 7 Yea, to 
the dead. But will it not live with the living 7 No. Why 7 
Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore, I'll none of it. 
Honour is a mere 'scutcheon! — and so ends my catechism. 

XXIV. — Part of Richard HTs Soliloquy , the night preceding 
the Battle of Bosworth. 

'TIS now the dead of night, and half the world 
Is with a lonely solemn darkness hung ; 
Yet I (so coy a dame is sleep to me) 
With all the weary courtship of 
My care-tir'd thoughts, can't win her to my bed, 
Though e'en the stars do wink, as 'twere, with overwatching, 
I'll forth, and walk awhile. The air's refreshing, 
And the ripe harvest of the new-mown hay 
Gives it a sweet and wholesome odour. 
How awful is this gloom ! And hark ! from camp to camp 
The hum of either army stilly sounds, 
That the fix'd sentinels almost receive 
The secret whispers of each other's watch ! 
Steed threatens steed in high and boasting neighing?. 
Piercing the night's dull ear. Hark ! From the tents, 
The armorers, accomplishing the knights, 
With clink of hammers closing rivets up, 
Give dreadful note of preparation : while some, 
Like sacrifices, by their fires of watch, 
With patience sit, and inly ruminate 
The morning's danger. By yon Heaven, my stern 
Impatience chides this tardy-gaited night, 
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, does limp 
So tediously away. I'll to my couch, 
Andcnce more try^to sleep her into morning. 

XXV. — The World compared to a Stage. 

ALL the world's a stage ; 
And all the men and women, merely players. 
They have their exits and their entrances ; 
And one man, in his time, plays many parts, 
His acts i»inf levtn ages At first, the Infant $ 



Sect. V.] SPEAKING, 346 

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms, 

And then the whining School-boy ; with his satchel, 

And shining morning face, creeping, like a snail, 

Unwillingly to school. And then the Lover ; 

Sighing like furnace ; with a woful ballad 

Made to his Mistress' eyebrow. Then a Soldier ; 

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard ; 

Jealous in honour : sudden and quick in quarrel ; 

Seeking the bubble reputation, 

Even in th's cannon's mouth. And then the Justice - t 

In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd : 

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut ; 

Full of wise saws and modern instances: 

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 

Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon ; 

With spectacled on nose, and pouch on side ; 

His youthful hose, well sav'd a world tco wide 

For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice> 

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, 

That ends this strange eventful history, 

Is second Childishness, and mere Oblivion ; 

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.. 



APPENDIX* 



CONCISE PASSAGES, 

EXEMPLIFYING CERTAIN PARTICULARS^ ON THE PROPER EX- 
PRESSION OF WHICH, THE MODULATION AND MANAGEMENT 
OF THE VOICE, IN READING AND SPEAKING, PRINCIPALLY 
DEPEND. 

I. — ^Examples of Antithesis; or tht Opposition of Words or 
Sentences. 

1. THE manner of speaking is as important as the matter. — 
Chesterfield. 

2. Cowards die many times ; the valiant never taste of death but 
ence. — Shakespeare. 

3. Temperance, by fortifying the mind and body, leads to happi* 
ness ; intemperance, l>y enervating the mind and body, ends general- 
ly in misery. — Art of Thinking. 

4. Title and ancestry render a good man more illustrious ; but an 
ill one more contemptible. Vice is infamous, though in a prince ; 
and virtue honourable, though in a peasant. — Spectator. 

5. Almost every object that attracts our notice, has its bright and 
its dark side. He who habituates himself to look at the displeasing 
side, will sour his disposition, and consequently, impair his happi- 
ness ; while he who constantly beholds it on the bright side, insensi* 
biy meliorates his temper, and, in consequence of it, improves his own 
happiness, and the happiness of all around him. — World. 

6 A wise man endeavours to shine in himself; a fool to outshine 
ethers. The former is humbled by the sense of his own infirmities; 
the latter is lifted up by the discovery of those which he observes in 
others. The wise man considers what he wants; and the fool what 
he abounds in. The wise man is happy when he gains his own ap- 
probation ; and the fool, when he recommends himself to the ap- 
plause of those about, him. — Spectator* 

7. When opportunities of exercise are wanting, temperance may in 
a great measure supply its place. If exercise throws off all superflu- 
ities, temperance prevents them ; if exercise clears the vessels, tem- 
perance neither satiates nor overstrains them ; — if exercise raises 
proper ferments in the humours, and promotes the circulation of the 
blood, temperance gives nature her full play, and enables her to 
exert herself in all her force and vigour; if exercise dissipates a 
growing distemper, temperance starves it..— Spectator. 

8. I have always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I 
consider as an act, the former as a habit of the mind. Mirth is short 
and transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are often 
raised into the greatest transports of mirth, who are subject' to the 
greatest depressions of melancholy. On the contrary, cheerfulness, 
though it does not give the mind such an exquisite gladness, prevents 
us from falling into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of 



APPENDIX. 347 

lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds and glitters for a 
moment ; cheerfulness keeps a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills 
it with a steady and perpetual serenity. — Spectator. 

9. At the same time that I think discretion the most useful talent a 
man can be master of, I look upon cunning to he the accomplishment 
of little, mean; ungenerous minds. Discretion points out the noblest 
ends to us, and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of at- 
taining them ; cunning has only private, selfish aims, and sticks at 
nothing which may make them succeed ; discretion has large and 
extensive views, and, like a well formed eye, commands a whole 
horizon ; cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that discovers the 
minutest objects, which are near a: hand, bat it is not a.ble to discern 
things at a distance. — Spectator. 

10. Nothing is more amiable than true modesty, and nothing more 
contemptible than the false. The one guards virtue ; the other 
betrays it. True modesty is ashamed to do any thing that is repug- 
nant to the rules of right reason ; false modesty is ashamed to do any 
thing that is opposite to the humour of the company. True modesty 
a -ids every thing that is criminal ; false modesty every thing that is 
unfashionable. The latter is only a general undetermined instinct ; 
the former is that instinct, limited and circumscribed by the ruiw 
of prudence and religion .^Spectator. 

11. How different is the view of past life, in the man who is grown 
old in knowledge and wisdom, from that of him who is grown old in 
ignorance and folly ! The latter is like the owner of a barren country, 
that fills his eye with the prospect of naked hills and plains, which 
produces nothing either profitable or ornamental ; the former beholds 
a beautiful and spacious landscape, divided into delightful gardens, 
green meadows, fruitful fields ; and can scarce cast his eye on a 
single spot of his possessions, that is not covered with some beautiful 
plant or flower.*— Spectator. 

12. As there is a worldly happiness, which God perceives to be no 
other than disguised misery ; as there are worldly honours which, in 
his estimation, are reproach ; so there is a worldly wisdom, which, in 
his sight, is foolishness. Of this worldly wisdom, the characters arc 
given in the scriptures, and placed in contrast with those of the wis- 
dom which is from above. The one is the wisdom of the crafty ; the 
other, that of the upright : The one terminates in selfishness ; the 
other in charity : The one, is full of strife, and bitter envying ; the 
other, of mercy and good fruits. — Blair. 

13. True honour, though it be a different principle from religion, is 
that which produces the same effects. The lines of action, though 
drawn from different parts, terminate in the same point. Religion 
embraces virtue, as it is enjoined by the laws of God ; honour, as it is 
graceful and ornamental to human nature. The religious man fears, 
the man of honour scorns, to do an ill action. The latter considers 
vice as something that is beneath him ; the former, as something 
that is offensive to the Divine Being; the one, as what is unbecom- 
ing ; the other, as what is forbidden. — Guardian. 

14. Where is the man that possesses, or indeed can be required te 
possess, greater abilities in war, than Pompey ? One who has fought 
more pitched battles, than others have maintained personal disputes S 



S48 APPENDIX. 

Carried oft more wars than others have acquired knowledge of b$* 
reading ! Reduced more provinces than others have aspired to, even 
in thought ! Whose youth was trained to the profession of arms, not 
by precepts derived from others, but by the highest offices of com- 
mand ! Not by personal mistakes in war, but by a train of important 
victories ; not by a series of campaigns, but by a succession of tri- 
umphs. — Cicero. 

15. Two principles in human nature reignj 
Self-love to urge, and reason to restrain ; 

Nor this a good, noi* that a bad we call, 

Each works its end — to move or govern all. — Pope. 

16. In point of sermons, 'tis confess'd 
Our English clergy make the best ; 

But this appears, we must confess, 

Not from the pulpit, but the press. 

They manage, with disjointed skill, 

The matter well, the manner ill ; 

And, what seems paradox at first, 

They make the best, and preach the worsi.~~Byram. 

17. Know, Nature's children all divide her care ; 
The fur that warms the monarch warm'd a bear. 
While man exclaims, " See all things for my use !" 
u See man for mine !" replies a pamper'd goose : 
And just as short of reason he must fall, 

Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. — Poj^e. 

18. O thou goddess, 

Thou divine Nature ! How thyself thou blazon'st 
In these two princely boys ! They are as gentle 
As zephyrs blowing below the violet, 
Not wagging his sweet head : and yet as rough 
(Their royal blood enchaf d) as the rud'st wind 
That by the top doth take the mountain pine, 
And make them stoop to the vale. — Shakespeare. 

'19. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, 
As those rn° ve easiest who have learn'd to dance. 
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence ; 
The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 
Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows^ 
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; 
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
The hoarse rough verse should like a torrent roar. 
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
The line, too, labours, and the words move slow ; 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, 
Flies o'er th' unbending ccrn, and skims along the main. — Pope 

20. Good name in man and woman 
Is the immediate jewel of their souls. 

Who steals my purse, steals trash ; 'tis something, nothing ; 
;Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slaves to thousands. 
But he that filches from me my good name, 
Robs me of that which not enriches him, 
And makes me poor indeed. — Shakespeare. 



j**** 9 *~" APPENDIX. 646 

II. — Examples of Enumeration ; or the mentioning of Par- 
ticulars. 

t. I CONSIDER a human soul, without education, like marble in 
the quarry ; which shows none of its inherent beauties, till the skill 
Gfthe polisher fetches out the colours, makes the surface shine, and 
discovers every ornamental cloud, spot, and vein, that runs through 
the body of it.- — Spectator. 

2. The subject of a discourse being opened, explained, and con- 
firmed; that is to say. the speaker having gained the attention and 
judgment of his audience, he must proceed to complete his conquest 
over the passions; such as imagination, admiration, surprise, tidpe, 
joy, love, fear, grief^ anger. Now he must begin to exert himself \ 
here it is that aline genius may display itself in the use cf amplifica- 
tion, enumeration, interrogation, metaphor, and every ornament that 
can render a discourse entertaining, winning, striking, and enforcing, 
— Ba/llie. 

3. I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angelsj nor 
principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor 
height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us 
from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. — St. Paul. 

4. Sincerity is, to speak as we think, to do as we pretend and pro- 
fess, to perform and make good what we promise, and really to be 
what we would seem and appear to be. — TiUotson. 

5. No blessing of life is any way comparable to the enjoyment of a 
discreet and virtuous friend ; it eases and unloads the mind, clears 
arid improves the understanding, engenders thought and knowledge, 
animates virtue and good resolutions, sooths and allays the passions, 
and finds employment for most of the vacant hours of life. — Spectator, 

C. The brightness of the sky, the lengthening of the days, the in- 
creasing verdure of the spring, the arrival of any little piece of good 
news, or whatever carries with it the most distant glimpse of joy, in 
frequently the parent of a social and happy conversation. — World. 

7. In fair weather, when my heart is cheered, and I feel that ex- 
altation of spirits, which results from light and warmth, joined with a 
beautiful prospect of nature, I regard myself as one placed, by the 
hand of God, in the midst of an ample theatre, in wh^ch the sun, 
moon, and stars, the fruits also, and vegetables of the earth, perpetu- 
al 5 ' changing their positions or their aspects, exhibit an elegant en- 
tertainment to the understanding, as well as to the eye. Thunder and 
lightning, rain and hail, the painted bow and the glaring comets, are 
decorations of this mighty theatre ; and the sable hemisphere, studded 
with spangles, the blue vault at noon, the glorious gildings and rich 
colourings irt the horizon, I lock on as so many successive scenes. 
— Spectator. 

8 Complaisance renders a superior amiable, ari equal agreeable, 
and an inferior acceptable. It smooths distinction, sweetens conver- 
sation, and makes every one in the company pleased with himself. 
It produces good nature and mutual benevolence, encourages the 
timorous, sooths the turbulent, humanizes the fierce, and distinguishes 
a society of civilized persons from a company of savages. In a word, 
complaisance is a virtue that blends all orders of men together, in a 
Gg 



330 APPENDIX. 

friendly intercourse of words and actions, and is* suited to thafc equa- 
lity in human nature, which every man ought to consider, so far as 
is consistent with the order and economy of the world. — Guardian. 

9. It is owing to our having early imbibed false notions of virtue, 
that the word Christian does not carry with it, at first view, all that 
is great, worthy, friendly, generous, and heroic. The man who sus- 
pends his hopes of the rewards of worthy actions till after death; 
who oan bestow, unseen ; who can overlook hatred ; do good to his 
slanderer ; who can never be angry at his friend ; never revengeful 
to his enemy, is certainly formed for the benefit of society. — Spectator. 

10. Though we seem grieved at the shortness of life in general, 
we are wishing every period of it at an end. The minor longs to be 
of age ; then to be a man of business ; then to make up an estate ; 
then to arrive at honours ; then to retire. The usurer would be 
very well satisfied, to have all the time annihilated that lies between 
the present moment and the next quarter-day ; the politician would 
be contented to lose three years in his life, could he place tilings in 
the posture which he fancies they will stand in, after such a revolu- 
tion of time ; and the lover woufd be glad to strike out of his exist- 
ence, all the moments that are to pass away before the happy meet- 
ing. 

11. Should the greater part of the people sit down and draw up a 
particular account of tfieir time, what a shameful bili would it be ! 

'&o much in eating, drinking, and sleeping, beyond what nature re- 
quires ; so much in revelling and wantonness; so much for the 
recovery of last night's intemperance ; so much in gaming, plays, and 
masquerades ; so much in paying and receiving formal and imperti- 
nent visits ; so much in idle and foolish prating, in censuring and 
reviling our neighbours! so much in dressing out our bodies, and in 
talking of fashions ; and so much wasted and lost in doing nothing at 
all. — Sherlock. 

12- If we would have the kindness of others, we must endure their 
follies. He who cannot persuade himself to withdraw from society, 
must be content to pay a tribute of his time to a multitude of tyrants ; 
to the loiterer, who makes appointments he never keeps ; to the con- 
suiter, who asks advice which he never takes — to the boaster, who 
blusters only to be praised — to the eomplainer, who whines only to 
he pitied — to the projector, whose happiness is to entertain his friends 
with expectations, which all but himself know to be vain — to the 
economist, who tells of bargains and settlements — to the politician, 
who predicts the consequences of deaths, battles, and alliances — to 
the usurer, who compares the state of the different funds— and to the 
talker, who talks only because he loves to be talking. — Johnson. 

13. Charity suffereth long, and is kind ; charity envieth not ; cha- 
rity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself un- 
seemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no 
evil ; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth ; beareth 
all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all thinggi 
~-8t. Paul 

14. Delightful task ! To rear the tender thought. 

To teach the young idea how to shoot ; 

To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, 



APPENDIX. 3SJ 

To breathe th' enliv'ning spirit, and to fix 

The geifrous purpose in the glowing breast. — Thomson. 

15. Dread o'er the scene the ghost of Hamlet stalks — 
Othello rages — poor Monimia mourns— 

And Belvidera pours her soul in love. 

Terror alarms the breast — the comely tear 

Steals o'er the cheek. Or else the comic muse 

Holds to the world a piefure of itself, 

And raises, sly. the fair impartial laugh. 

♦Sometimes she lifts her strain, and paints the scenes 

Of beauteous life ; whatever can deck mankind, 

Or charm the heart, the generous Bevil show'd. — Thomson 

16. Then Commerce brought into the public walk 
The busy merchant ; the big warehouse built ; 
Rais'd the strong crane ; choalc d up the loaded street 
With foreign plenty, and thy stream, O Thames^ 
Large, gentle, deep, majestic, king of foods I 

Chose for his grand resort. On either hand, 

Like a long wintry forest, groves of masts 

Shoot up their spires ; the bellying sheet between, 

Possess'd the breezy void, the sooty hulk 

Steer'd sluggish on ; the splendid barge along 

Rowed regular to harmony ; around, 

The boat, light skimming, stretch'd its oary wings ; 

While deep, the various voice of fervent toil, 

From bank to bank, increas'd ; whence ribb'd with oak., 

To bear the British thunder, black and bold, 

The roaring vessel rush'd into the main. — Thomson. 

17. 'Tis from high life high characters are drawn; 
A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn. 

A judge is just ; a chancellor juster still ; 

A gownman learn'd ; a bishop — what you will : 

Y* r ise, if a minister; but, if a king, 

More wise, more learn'd, more just, more ereyy thing. — £&pc. 

18. ? Tis education form? the common mind ; 
just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined. 
Boastful and rough, your first son is a squire ; 
The next a trader-man, meek, and much a liar; 
Tom struts a soldier, open, bold, and brave ; 
Will sneaks a scriv'ner, an exceeding knave. 

Is he a churchman ? Then he's fond of power ; 

Aquaker? Sly; a presbyterian ? Sour; 

A smart freethinker ? All things in an hour. — Pope. 

19. See what a grace was seated on his brow ; 
Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove himself: 

An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; 

A station like the herald Mercury, 

New lighted, on a heaven-kissing hill ; 

A combination, and a form indeed, 

Where every god did seem to set his seal, 

To give the world assurance of a man. — Shakespeare. 



3£>2 APPENDIX. 

20. The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palacer, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; 
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
Leave not a wreck behind. — Shakespeare. 

III. — Examples of Suspension ; or a delaying of the Sense. 

1. AS beauty of person, with an agreeable carriage, pleases the 
eye. and that pleasure consists in observing that all the parts have a 
certain elegance, and are proportioned to each other ; so does de- 
cency of behaviour obtain the approbation of all with whom we con- 
verse, from the order, consistency, and moderation of our words and 
actions,-— Spectator. 

2. If Pericles, as historians report, could shake the firmest resolu- 
tions of his hearers, and set the passions of all Greece in a ferment, 
when the public welfare of his country, or the fear of hostile inva- 
sions, was the subject ! what may we not expect from that orator, 
who, with a becoming energy, warns his audience against those evils, 
which have no remedy, when once undergone, either from prudence 
Of time : — Spectator. 

3. Though there is a great deal of pleasure in contemplating the 
material world, by which I mean that system of bodies into which 
nature lias so curiously wrought the mass of dead matter, with the 
several relations which those bodies bear to one another ; there is 
still something more wonderful and surprising, in contemplating the 
world of Ufa, or those various animals with which every part of the 
universe is rurnisshed. — Spectator. 

4. Since it is certain that our hearts cannot deceive us in the love 
of the world, and that we cannot command ourselves enough to 
resign it, though we every day wish ourselves disengaged from its 
allurements ; let us not stand upon a formal taking of leave, but 
wean ourselves from them, w T hi!e we are in the midst of them. — Spec- 
tator. 

5. When a man has got such a great and exalted soul, as that he 
and death, riches and poverty, with indifference, 

honesty, in whatever shape she presents her- 
ue appeals, with such a brightness, as that all 
her beauties. — Cicero. 

is and elegant discourse from the pulpit, which 
noble figure, murdered by him who had learn- 
se it, but, having been neglected as to one 
'his education, knows not how to deliver it, other- 
wise than with a tone between singing and saying, or with a nod of 
is head, to enforce, as with a hammer, every emphatical word, or 
irith the same umiiimiated monotony in which he was used to repeat 
}u& gsnus at Westminister school : what can be imagined more la- 
mentable ? Yet what more coinmon ! — Burgh'. 

7. Having already shown how the fancy is affected by the works 
if nature, and afterwards considered in generaf, both the works of 
suture and art, iiow they mutually ^Ssist am i complete each other, 
U forming such scents and prospects, as are most apt to delight the 



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APPENDIX. 353 

mind of the beholder, I shall, in tfiis paper, throw together some re- 
jections on that particular art. which has a more immediate tendency 
than any other, to produce those primary pleasures of the imagina- 
tion, which have hitherto been the subject of this discourse.— Spec 
iator. 

8. The causes of good and evil are so various and uncertain, so 
often entangled with each other, so diversified by various relations, 
and so much subject to accidents which cannot be foreseen ;. that he 
who would fix his condition upon incontestable reasons of preference, 
must live and die inquiring and deliberating. — Johnson. 

9. He, who through the vast immensity can pierce, 
See worlds on worlds compose one universe, 
Observe how system into system runs, 

What other planets circle other suns } 
What varied being people every star, 
May tell, why heaven has made us as we? are. — Pops, 

10. In that soft season, when descending showers 
Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flowers ; 
When opening buds salute the welcome day, 

And earth, relenting, feels the genial ray ; 
As balmy sleep had charm'd my cares to rest, 
And Jove itself was banish'd from my breast; 
A train of phantoms in wild order rose, 
Andjoin'd, this intellectual scene compose. — Pope, 

11. Nor fame I slight, nor for her favours call : 
She comes unlook'd for, if she corner at alb 

But if the purchase cost so dear a price, 

As soothing folly, or exalting vice ; 

And if the muse must natter lawless sway, 

And follow still where fortune leads the way ; 

Or, if no basis bear my rising name 

But the fail n ruins of another's fame ; 

Then teach me, Leav'n, to scorn the guilty bays ; 

Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise. 

Unblemish'd let rne live, or die unknown.; 

Oh, grant me honest fame, or grant me none. — Pope, 

12. As one, who long in populous city pent, 
Where houses thick tli\& sewers annoy the air, 
Forth issuing on a summer's morn, to breathe, 
Among the pleasant villages and farms 
Adjoin'd. from each thing met conceives delight; 
The smell of grain, or tedded grass, or kine, 

Or dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound ; 
If chance, with nymph-like step, fair virgin pass, 
What pleasing seemd, for her now pleases more 
She most, and in her look sums all delight : 
Such pleasure took the serpent to behold 
Titis howery plant, the sweet recess of Eve? 
Thus earlv, thus alone. — Milton, 
Gg2 



354 APPENDIX. 

IV. — Examples of Parenthesis ; or words interposed in 

Sentences. 

1. THOUGH good sense is not in the number, nor always, it must 
be owned, in the company of the sciences ; yet it is (as the most sen- 
sible of the poets has justly observed) fairly worth the seven. — Mel- 
moth. 

2. An elevated genkjs, employed in little things, appears (to use 
the simile of Longinus) like the sun in his evening declination : he 
remits hjs splendour, but retains his magnitude ; and pleases more, 
though he dazzles less. — Johnson. 

3. The horror with which we entertain the thoughts of death (or 
indeed of any future evil) and the uncertainty of its approach, fill a 
melancholy mind with innumerable apprehensions and suspicions. — 
Spectator, 

4. If envious people were to ask themselves, whether they would 
exchange their entire situations with the persons envied, (I mean 
their minds, passions, notions, as well as their persons, fortunes, dig- 
nities, &c.) I presume the self-love common to all human nature, 
would generally make them prefer their own condition. — Shenstonc. 

5. Notwithstanding all the care of Cicero, history informs us, that 
Marcus proved a mere blockhead ; and that nature (who, it seems, 
was even with the son for her prodigality to the father) rendered him 
incapable of improving, by all the rules of eloquence, the precepts of 
philosophy, his own endeavours, and the most refined conversation in 
Athens.— Spectator. 

6. The opera (in which action is joined with music, in order to en- 
tertain the eye at the same time with the ear) 1 must teg leave (with 
all due submission to the taste of the great) to consider as a forced 
conjunction of two things, which nature does not allow to go to- 
gether. — Burgh. 

7. As to my own abilities in speaking (for I shall admit this charge, 
although experience has convinced me, that what is called the power 
of eloquence, depends, for the most part, upon the hearers, and that 
the characters of public speakers are determined by that degree of 
favour which you vouchsafe to each) if long practice, I say, hath 
given me any proficiency in speaking, you have ever found it devoted 
to my country .—Demosthenes. 

8. "When Socrates' fetters were knocked off (as was usual to be 
done on the day that the condemned person was to be executed) 
being seated in the midst of his disciples, and laying one of his legs 
over the other, in a very unconcerned posture, he began to rub it 
where it had been galled by the iron ; and (whether it was to show 
the indifference with which he entertained the thoughts of his ap- 
proaching death, or (after his usual manner) to take every occasion 
of philosophising upon some useful subject) he observed the pleasure 
of that sensation which now arose in those very parts of his leg, that 
just before had been so much pained by fetters. Upon this he reflect- 
ed on the nature of pleasure, and pain in general, and how constantly 
fhey succeeded one another.— Spectator. 



APPENDIX. 356 

D Let us (since life can little more supply 
Than just to look about us and to die) 
Expatiate free, o'er all this scene of man ; 
A mighty maze ! But not without a plan. — Pope. 

10. His years are young, but his experience old ; 
His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe ; 
And, in a word (for, far behind his worth 

Come all the praises that I now bestow) 
He is complete in feature and in mind, 
With all good grace to grace a gentleman. 

Shakespeare's Two Gentlemen of Verona, 

11. That man i' th' world, who shall report, he has 
A better wife, let him in nought be trusted, 

For speaking false in that. Thou art alone 

(If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, 

Thy meekness, saint-like, wife-like government, 

Obeying in commanding, and thy parts 

Sovereign and pious, could but speak thee out) 

The queen of earthly queens. — Shakespeare's Henry VIII. 

12. Forthwith (behold the excellence, the power, 
Which God hath in bis mighty angels plac'd) 
Their arms away they threw, and to the hills 
(For earth hath this variety from heaven, 

Of pleasure situate in hiTl and dale) 
Light as the lightning's glimpse, they ran, they flew; 
From their foundations loos'ning to and fro, 
They pluck'd the seated hills, with all their load, 
Rocks, waters, woods ; and, by the shaggy tops 
Uplifted, bore them in their hands. — Paradise Lost. 

V. — Examples of Interrogation, or Questioning. 

1. ONE day, when the Moon was under an eclipse, she complained 
thus to the Sun of the discontinuance of his favours. My dearest 
friend, said she, Why do you not shine upon me as you used to do ? 
Do I not shine upon thee ? said the Sun : I am very sure that I intend 
it. O no, replies the Moon ; but I now perceive the reason. I see 
that dirty planet the Earth is got between us. — Dodsley's Fables. 

2. Searching every kingdom for a man who has the least comfort 
in life, Where is he to be found ? In the royal palace. — What, his 
Majesty ? Yes ; especially if he be a despot.— Art of Thinking. 

3. You have obliged a man ; very well ! What would you have 
more ? Is not the consciousness of doing good a sufficient reward ? — 
Art of Thinking. 

4. A certain passenger at sea had the curiosity to ask the pilot of 
the vessel, what death his father died of. What death ? said the 
pilot. Why be perished at sea, as my grandfather did before him. 
And are you not afraid of trusting yourself to an element that has 
proved thus fatal to your family ? Afraid ! By no means ; Is not your 
father dead ? Yes, but he died in his bed. And why then, returned 
the pilot, are you not afraid of trusting yourself in your bed ? — Jtri 
of Thinking, 



356 APPENDIX. 

5. Is it credible, isjt possible, that tie mighty soul of a Newtc>i 
should share exactly the san-o fate with the vilest insect that crawls 
upon the ground ? that, after haying laid open the mysteries of nature, 
and pushed its discoveries almost to the very boundaries of the uni- 
verse, it should, on a sudden, have all its lights at once extinguished) 
and sink into everlasting darkness and insensibility ? — Spectator. 

6. Suppose a youth to have no prospect either of sitting in Parlia- 
ment, of pleading at the bar, of appearing upon the slage, or in the 
pulpit : Does it follow that he need bestow no pains in learning to 
speak properly his native language ? Will he never have occasion to 
read, in a company of his friends, a copy of verses, a passage of a 
book or newspaper? Must he never read a discourse ofTillotson, or 
a chapter of the Whole Duty of Man, for the instruction of his chil- 
dren and servants ? Cicero justly observes, that address in speaking 
is highly ornamental, as well as useful, even in private life. The 
limbs are parts of the body much less noble than the tongue ; yet no 
gentleman grudges a considerable expense of time and money, to 
have his son taught to use them properly ; which is very commenda- 
ble. And is there no attention to be paid to the use of the tongue, 
the glory of man ? — Burgh. 

7. Does greatness secure persons of rank from infirmities, either Ox 
body or mind ? Will the headach, the gout, or fever, spare a prince 
any more than a subject? When old age comes to lie heavy upon 
him, will his engineers relieve him of the load ? Can his guards and 
sentinels, by doubling and trebling their numbers, and their watch- 
fulness, prevent the approach of death ? Nay, if jealousy, or even 
ill-humour, disturb his happiness, will the cringes of his fawning at- 
tendants res' >re his tranquillity ? What comfort has he in reflecting 
(if he can make the reflection) while the cholic, like Prometheus' 
vulture, tears his bowels, that he is under a canopy of crimson velvet, 
fringed with geld ? When the pangs of the gout or stone extort from 
him screams of agony, do the titles of Highness or Majesty come 
sweetly into his ear ? If he is agitated with, rage, does the sound of 
Serene, or Most Christian, prevent his staring, reddening, and gnash- 
ing his teeth like a madman ? W^ould not a twinge of the toothach, 
or an affront from an inferior, make the mighty Ceesar forget that he 
was emperor of the world ?-— Montaigne. 

8. When will you, my countrymen, when will you. rouse from your 
indolence, and bethink yourselves of what is to be done ? — When 
you are forced to it by some fatal disaster ? When irresistible neces- 
sity drives you ? What think you of the disgraces which are already 
come upon you ? Is not the past sufficient to stimulate your activity ? 
Or, do you w T ait for somewhat more forcible and urgent ? How long 
will you amuse yourselves with inquiring of one another after news, 
as you ramble rtily about the streets ? What news so strange ever 
came to Athens, as that a Macedonian should subdue this state and 
lord it over Greece ? — Demosthenes. 

9. What is the blooming tincture of the skin, 
To peace of mind and harmony within ? - 

What the bright sparkling of the finest eye. 
To the soft soothing of a calm reply ? 
Can comeliness of form, or shape, or air, 
W T ith comeliness of word or deeds eompare ? 



APPENDIX. 33? 

3Nfo : — Those at first th' unwary heart may gala ; 
But these, these only, can the heart retain. — Gay. 
10. Wrong'd in my love, all proffers I disdain ; 
Deceiv'd for once I trust not kings again. 
Ye have my answer — What remains to do, 
Your king, Ulysses, may consult with you. 
What needs he the defence, this arm can make ? 
Has he not walls no human force can shake ? 
Has he not fenced his guarded navy round 
With piles, with ramparts, and a trench profound ? 
And will not these, the wonders he has done, 
Repel the rage of Priam's single son ? — Pope's Homer. 

VI.— Examples of Climax, or a gradual increase of Sense or 
Passion. 

1. CONSULT your whole natures Consider yourselves not only as 
sensitive, but as rational beings ; not only as rational, but social ; not 
only as gocial, but immortal. — Blair. 

2. Whom he did foreknow, he also did predestinate ; and whom 
he did predestinate, them he also called ; and whom he called, 
them he also justified; and whom he justified, them he also glorified. 
—St. Paul. 

3. What hope is there remaining of liberty, if whatever 13 their 
pleasure, it is lawful for them to do ; if what is lawful for them to do, 
they are able to do ; if what they are able to do, they dare do ; is" 
what they dare do, they really execute; and if what they execute 
is no way offensive to you. — Cicero. 

4. Nothing is more pleasant to the fancy, than to enlarge itself by 
degrees in its contemplation of the various proportions which its seve- 
ral objects bear to each other ; when it compares the body of a man 
to the bulk of the whole earth ; the earth to the circle it describes 
round the sun ; that circle to the sphere of the fixed stars ; the sphere 
of the fixed stars to the circuit of the whole creation ; the whole crea- 
tion itself, to the infinite space that is every where diffused around 
it. — Spectator. 

5. After we hove practised good actions awhile, they become easy ; 
and when they are easy, we begin to take pleasure in them; and 
when they please us we do them frequently ; and by frequency of 
acts, a thing grows into a habit ; and a confirmed habit is a second 
kind of nature ; and so far as any thing is natural, so far it is neces- 
sary ; and we can hardly do otherwise ; nay, we do it many times 
when we do not think ofii.-—TlUolso?z. 

6. It is pleasant to be virtuous and good, because that is to excel 
inanv others ; it is pleasant to grow better, because that is to excel 
ourseives; it is pleasant to mortify and r-ahdue our lusts, because 
that is victory ; it is pleasant to command our appetites and passions, 
and to keep thorn in due order, within tho bounds of reason and reli- 
gion, because that is empire.-— Tilloiffm, 

7. Tully has a very beautiful gradation of thoughts to show how- 
amiable virtue is. We love a righteous man, says he, who lives in 
th':- remotest parts of the earth, though we are altogether out of the 
reach of his- virtue, and can receive from it no manner of benefit ; nay, 



3ft APPENDIX. 

one who died several ages ago, raises a secret fondness and benevo- 
lence for him in our minds, when we read his story ; nay, what is 
still more, one who has been the enemy of our country, provided las 
wars were regulated by justice and humanity ^Spectator. 

8. As trees and plants necessarily arise from seeds, so are you An- 
tony, the seed of this most calamitous war. — You mourn, O Romans, 
that three of your armies have been slaughtered — they were slaugh- 
tered by Antony; you lament the loss of your most illustrious clti- 
'zens — they were torn from you by Antony ; tiie authority of this or- 
der is deeply wounded— it is wounded by Antony ; in short, all the 
calamities we have ever since beheld (and what calamities have we 
not beheld ?) have been entirely owing to Antony. As Helen was at 
Troy, so the bane, the misery, the destruction of this state is — An- 
ton)". — Cicero. 

9. — Give me the cup, 

And let the kettle to the trumpets speak, 
The trumpets to the cannoneers within, 

The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth, 
";_ Now the king drinks to Hamlet. — Trag. of Hairdct,. 

10. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool 5 
^ Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan \ 

At fifty, chides his infamous delay, 

Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve, 

In all the magnanimity of thought, 

Resolves and re-resolves — then dies the same. — Young. 

VII. — Examples of the principal Emotions and Passions — 
Admiration, Contempt, Joy, Grief, Courage, Fear, Love, 
Hatred, Pity, Anger, Revenge, and Jealousy. 

1. WHAT a piece of work is man ! How noble in reason ! How 
infinite in faculties! In form and moving how express and admira- 
ble • In action how like an angel ! In apprehension how like a 
god ! — Hamlet. 

2. Away ! No woman could descend so low, 
A skipping, dancing, worthless tribe you are. 
Fit only for yourselves, you herd together ; 

"£y And when the circling glass warms your vain hearts, 

A You talk of beauties which you never saw, 

And fancy raptures that you never knew. — Fair Penitent, 

3. Let mirth go on ; let pleasure know no pause, 
*f But fill up every minute of this day. 

'Tis yours, my children, sacred to your loves. 
? The glorious sun himself for 3'ou looks gay ; 

He shines for Altamont, and for Calista. 
Take care my gates be open. Bid all welcome ; 
All who rejoice with me to-day are friends. 
Let each indulge his genius ; each be glad, 
Jocund and free, and swell the feast with mirth. 
The sprightly bowl shall cheerfully go round ; 
None shall be grave, nor too severely wise : 
Losses and disappointments, care and poverty, 



APPENDIX. 359 

The rich man's insolence, and great man's scorn, 
In wine shall be forgotten all. — Fair Penitent, 

4. All dark and comfortless.. 

Where all these various objects, that hut now. 

Employ'd my busy eyes ? Where those eyes * 

These groping hands are now my only guides^ 

And feeling all my sight. 

O misery ! What words can sound my ^rief ! 

Slutt from the living whilst among the living ; 

Park as the grave amidst the bustling world ; 

At once from business and from pleasure barr'd ; 

No more to view the beauty of the spring. 

Or see the face of kindred or of friend ! — Trag. of Lear, 

5. Thou speak'st a woman's ; hear a warrior's wish, 
"Right from their native land, the stormy north, 

May the wind blow, till every keel is fix'd 

Immoveable in Caledonia's strand ! 

Then shall our foes repent their bold invasion, 

And roving armies shun the fatal shore. — Trag. of Douglaz. 
G. Ah ! Mercy on my soul ! What's that ? My old friend's ghost f 
They say, none but wicked folks walk. I wish I were at the bottom 
of a coalpit! La! how pale, and how long his face is grown sjoee 
his death ! lie never was handsome ; and death has improved him 
very much the wrong way. — Pray, do not come near me ! I wished 
you very well when you were alive. — But I could never abide a dead 
man cheek by jowl with me.—^Ah ! Ah ! mercy on me ! No nearer, 
pray ! If it be only to take your leave of me, that you are come back, 
I could have excused you the ceremony with all my heart-.- — Or if 
you — mercy on us ! — No nearer, pray — or if you have wrong'd any 
body, as you always loved money a little, I give you the word of a 
.frighted Christian, I will pray, as long as you please, for the deliver- 
ance and repose of your departed soul. My good, worthy, noble 
friend, do, pray, disappear, as ever you would wish your old frienc^ 
Anse!em,to come to his senses again. — Moliere's Blunderer. 

7. Who can behold such beauty and be silent ! 

! I could talk to thee for ever ; 

For ever fix and gaze on those dear eyes ; 

For every glance they send darts through my soul.! — Orphan. ] 

8. How like a fawning publican he looks I 

1 hate him, for he is a Christian : 
But more for that in low simplicity 

He lends out money gratis, and brings down 
The rate of usance with us here in Venice. 
If I can catch him once upon the hip, 
I will feed fat that ancient grudge I bear him, 
He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 
E'en there where merchants most do congregate^ 
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, 
Which he calls usury. Cursed be my tribe 
If I forgive him.-^-Merchani of Venice. 

9. As, in a theatre, the eyes of men, 
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, 
Are idly bent on hira that eaters ucxt, 



3<50 APPENDIX. 

Thinking his prattle to be tedious ■ 

Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes 

Bid scowl on liicharck No in an cried^ God save him ; 

No joyful tongue gave him his Welcome home ; 

Dut dust Was thrown upon Ins sacred head j 

Which, with such gentle sorrow, he shook off, 

(His face still combating with tears and smiles. 

The badges of his grief and patience ;) 

That had not God, For some strong purpose, steel'd 

The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted } 

And barbarism itself have pitied bAm^~Rkhard II. 

«G\ Hear me, rash man, on thy allegiance hear me. 
Since thou hast striven to make us break our vow, 
(Which not our nature nor our place can bear) 
We banish thee for ever from our sight 
And kingdom. If, when three days are expir'd, 
Thy hated trunk be found in our dominions, 
That moment is thy death. Away ! 
By Jupiter this shall not be revoked.— Tragedy of Lear. 
11. If it will f&ed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath 
disgraced me, and hindered me of half a million, laughed at my losses, 
mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, 
cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's his reason ? 
I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes ? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, 
dimensions, senses, affections, passions ? Is he not fed with the same 
food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, 
healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same summer 
and winter, as a Christian is ? If you prick us, do we not bleed ? If 
you tickle us, do we not laugh ? If you poison us, do we not die ? 
And if you wrong us, shall we not raven^a ? If we are like ycu in 
the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, 
what is his humility ? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what 
would his sufferance be, by Christian example ? Why, revenge. 
The villany you teach me I will execute ; and it shall go hard, but 
Jt will better the instruction. — Merchant of Venice. 

12. Ye amaranths ! Ye roses, like the morn 1 
Sweet myrtles, and ye golden orange groves ! 
Joy-giving, love-inspiring, holy bower ! 
Know, in thy fragrant bosom, thou receiv'st 
A murd'rer ? Oh, I shall stain thy lilies, 
And horror will usurp the seat of bliss i 

■ Ha ! She sleeps 

The day's uncommon heat has overcome her. 

Then take, my longing eyes, your last full gaze — 

Oh, what a sight is here ! How dreadful fair ! 

Who would not think that being innocent ! 

Where shall I strike ? Who strikes her, strikes himself-* 

My own life's blood will issue at her wound — 

But see, she smiles ? I never shall smile more — 

It strongly tempts me to a parting kiss— 

Ha, smile again 1 She dreams of him she loves. 

Curse on her charms ! I'll stab her through them all. — Revenge, 



RULES 

FOR PRONOUNCING THE VOWELS OF 

GREEK AND LATIN PROPER NAMES 

Abridged from Walker's Key. . ^. ( -; 



g 



1. EVERY vowel with the accent on it at the end of a 
syllable is pronounced as in English, with its first long open 
sound : thus Ca'to, Philome'la, Qri'on, Pho'cion, Lu'cifer, 
&c. have the accented vowels sounded exactly as in the 
English words pa 1 per, me'tre, spi'der, no''ble, tu'tor, &x. 

2. Every accented vowel not ending a syllable, but Fol- 
lowed by a consonant, has the short sound as in English: 
thus Man'lius, Pen theus, Pin'darus, Col'chis, Cur'tius, &c, 
have the short sound of the accented vowels, as in mariner, 
plen'ty, prin'ter, col'lar, air' few, &c, t ■ 

3. Every final i, though unaccented, has the long open 
sound: thus the final i forming the genitive case, as in 
Magis'tri, or the plural number, as in De'cii, ha§ the long 
open sound, as in vi'al ; and this sound we give to this 
vowel in this situation, because the Latin i final in geni- 
tives, plurals, and preterperfect tenses of verbs, is always 
long ; and consequently where the accented i is followed 
by i final, both are pronounced with the long diphthongal 
i, like the noun eye, as Achi'vi 

4. Every unaccented i ending a syllable not final, as 
that in the second of Mcibiades, the Hernici, &c. is pro- 
nounced like e, as if written Alcebiades, the Herneci, &c. 
So the last syllable but one of the Fabii, the Horatii, ihe 
Curiatii, &,c. is pronounced as if written Fa«be-i } Ho~ra-she-i % 
Cu-re-a-she-i ; and therefore if the unaccented * and the 
diphthong & conclude a word, they are both pronounced like 
e, as Harpy ce, Harpy' e-e. 

5. The diphthongs ce and ce, ending a syllable with the 
accent on it, are pronounced exactly like the long English 
e> as Ctzsar, (Eta, &c. as if written Cee'sar. E f ta. &c. : and 

— Hh 



362' RULES FOR PRONOUNCING 

like the sliort e, when followed by a consonant in the same 
syllable, as Daedalus, CEdivus, fee, pronounced as if written 
Deddalus, Eddipus, fee. The vowels ei are generally pro- 
nounced like long i. 

6. Y is exactly under the same predicament as i. It is 
long when ending an accented syllable, as Oy'rus; or when 
ending an unaccented syllable if final, as JjE'gy, JE ! py, fee. : 
short when joined to a consonant in the same syllable, as 
Lyc'idas : and sometimes long and sometimes short, when 
ending an initial syllable not under the accent, as Ly-cur'- 
gus, pronounced with the first syllable like lie, a falsehood ; 
and Lysimachus with the first syllable like the first of legion ; 
or nearly as if divided into Lys-im f a-chus, fee, 

7. A, ending an unaccented syllable, has the same ob- 
scure sound &\ in the same situation in English words ; but 
it is a sound bordering on the Italian a, or the a in farther, 
as Dia'na, where the difference between the accented and 
unaccented a is palpable. 

i 8. E final, either with or without the preceding con- 
sonant, always forms a distinct syllable, as Penelope, Hip- 
pocrene, Evce. Amphiirite, fee. 

Rules for pronouncing the Consonants of Greek and Latin 
proper Names. 

9. C and G are hard before a, o, and u, as Cato, Comus, 
Cures, Galba, Gorgon, fee— and soft before e, i, and y, as 
Cebes, Scipio, Scylla, Ojina, Geryon, Geta, Gillus, Gyges, 
Gym nosophistce, fee. 

10. T, S, and C, before ia, ie, ii, io, iu, and eu, preceded 
by the accent, in Latin words, as in English, change into sh 
and zh, as Tatian, Statins, Portius, Portia, Socias, Caduceus, 
Aceius, Hehetii, Mcesia, Hesiod, fee. pronounced Tashean, 
fftasheus, Porsheus, Porshea, Sosheas, Cadusheus, AJcsheus, 
Helveshei, Mezhea, Hezheod, fee. But when the accent is 
on the fe st of the diphthongal vowels, the preceding conso- 
nant does not go into sh, but preserves its sound pure, as 
Miltiades, Antiates, fee. See the word Satiety. in Walker's 
Pron. Diet. 

11. TandS, in proper names, ending in Ma, sia, cyon t 
and sion, preceded by the accent, change the t and s into 
sh and zh. Thus Phocion, Sicyon, and Cercyon, are pro- 
nounced exactly in our own analogy, as if written Phoshean, 
Sishean, and Sershcan : Artemisia, and Aspasia sound as if 
written Artemizhea and Aspazhea: Galaiw, Aratia, Alotia, 



and Baila, as if written Galashea, An::hea, Aloshea, and Ba- 
shea : and [fAtia, the town in Campania, is not so pronounced, it 
is ta distinguish it from Asia, the eastern region of the world. 

12. C/L These letters before a vowel are always pro- 
nounced like k, as Chabrias, Colchis, dec. but when they 
corne before a mute consonant at the beginning of a word, 
as in Qitfionia, they are mute, and the word is pronounced 
as if written Tlionia. Words beginning with Sche, as 
Schedius, Scheria, &c. are pronounced as if written Skedhcs, 
Skeria, &,c. ; and c before n in the Latin praenornen Cneus 
or Cnceus is mute ; so in. Cnopus, Criosus; cec. 

13. At the beginning of Greek words we frequently find 
the uucombinable consonants MJV, TM, & c. as Mnemosyne, 
Alues idanius, Mneus, Mhesteus, Tmolus, izc. These are to 
be pronounced with the first consonant mute, as if written 
Nemosyne, JYesidamus, JSTeus, Nesiews, Mains, &lc. in the sam<4 
manner as w r e pronounce the words Bdellium, Pneumatic!^ 
Gnomon, Mnemonics, &c. without the initial consonant. 
The same may be observed of the C hard like K, when 
it comes before T : as Ciesiphon, Ciesippus, &c. Some of 
these words w r e see sometimes written with an e or i after 
the first consonant, as Menesteus, Tzmohis, &c. and then th^ 
initial consonant is pronounced. 

14. Ph, followed by a consonant, is mule, as PhtJiia, 
Phthioiis, pronounced Thia, Thiotis, in the same manner as 
the naturalised Greek word Phthlsick pronounced Tisick. 

15. Ps : — -p is mute also m this confbination, as Psyche, 
Psanvrtetichus, ceo. pronounced Syke, Sammeticus, &c. 

16. Pi, p is mute in words beginning with these letters 
when followed by a vowel, as Ptolemy, Pierilas, Slc. pro- 
nounced Tole?ny, Terilas, &c. ; but when followed by I, the 
t is heard, as in Tleptolemus. The same may be observed 
of the z in Zmilaces. 

17. The letters S, X, and Z, require but little observa- 
tion, being generally pronounced as in pure English words. 
It may however be remarked, that s, at the end of words, 
preceded by any of the Vowels but e, has its pure hissing 
sound ; as mas, cUs, os, mus, &,c. — but when e precedes, it 
goes into the sound of z ; as pes, Thersites, vates, &c. X % 
when beginning a word or syllable, is pronounced like z ; as 
Xerxes, Xenophon, &c. are pronounced Zerkzes, ZenopJion, 
&c. Z is uniformly pronounced as in English words : thus 
the z in Zeno and Zeugma is pronounced as we hear it 
in zeal j zone, &c. 



m RULES FOR PRONOUNCING, &c, 

Rules for ascertaining the English Quantity of Greek and 
Latin Proper Names. 

1 8. It may at first be observed, that words of two sylla- 
bles, with but one consonant in the middle, whatever be 
the quantity of the vowel in the first syllable in Greek 
or Latin, are always long in English: thus Crates the 
philosopher, and crates a hurdle ; deem honour, and dedo 
to give ; ovo to triumph, and ovum an egg ; Kuma the 
legislator, and Numen the divinity, have the first vowel 
always sounded equally long by an English speaker, al- 
though in Latin the first vowel in the first word of each of 
these pairs is short. 

19. On the contrary, words of three syllables, with the 
accent on the first and with but one consonant after the 
first syllable, have that syllable pronounced short, let the 
Greek or Latin quantity be what it will. This rule is never 
broken but when the first syllable is followed by e or i, fol- 
lowed by another vowel : in this ease the vowel in the first 
syllable is long, except that vowel be i : thus lamia, genius, 
Libya, dcceo, cupio, have the accent on the first syllable, 
and this syllable is pronounced long in every word but 
Libya, though in the original it is equally short in all. 

20. When a consonant ends a syllable, the vowel is al- 
ways short, whether the accent be en it or not ; but when 
a vovv A ends a syllable with the accent on it, it is always 
long : the vowel u, when it ends a syllable, is long whether 
the accent be on it or not, and the vowel i (3) (4) when it 
ends a syllable without the accent, is pronounced like e ; 
but if the syllable be final, it has its long open sound as if 
the accent were on it : and the same may be observed of 
the letter y. 

Rides for placing the Accent of Greek and Latin Proper 

Names. 

21. Words of two syllables, either Greek or Latin, what- 
ever be the quantity in the original, have, in English pro- 
nunciation, the accent on the first syllable : and if a single 
consonant come between two vowels, the consonant goes 
to the last syllable, and the vowel in the first is long ; as 
Cato % Ceres, Comus, &c. 

22. Polysyllables have generally the accent en the 
penultimate if it be long, as Severus, Democedes, &.e. ; if 
short, the accent is on the antepenultimate, as Demosthenes, 
Jurist onhanes, Posthumus } &c. 



GREEK AND LATIN PROPER NAMES, 



A- list comprising such Greek and Latin proper names, as 
are either to be found in the preceding Lessons, or are of 
common occurrence, 



AD 

A-BAINFTI-AS 

A-ban' she-as 

Ab-an-ti'a-des 

Ab-as-se'na 

Ab-as-se'ni 

A-by'dos 

A-by'dus 

Ab-ys-si A hi 

Ac-a-ce'si-um 

J$-a-se ij zhe~um 

4ka f she- 
fLc-a-de'mi-a 

Ac-a-de'mus 
A- c air' thus 
Ac a-ra 
A-ca'ri-a 
A-cas'ta 
A-das'tus 
Ac^cira 
h c-a 
A-cba'i-a 
Ach'e-ron 
-A-chil'Ies 
A-con'tes 
Ac-tavon 
A'des. or Ha'des 
Ad-her'bal 
A-do'ais 
Ad-ra-myt'ti-um 
A-dri-at'i-cum 
A-dri-an-op'o-li 



H 



AL 

A-dri-a'ntts 

A'dri-an, Eng.' 

^E-ge'as 

iE-gae'iis 
iE-ga'tes 
iE-ge'ri-a 

A'giS 

/E-gyp'tus 

^E-ne'as 

iE'o-lus 

iEs'chi-nes 

jEs'chy-lus 

l/Es-cu-la'pi-us 

' iE-so'pus 
lE'sop, Eng. 
^E'ti-on 
iEt'na 
Af-ri-ca'nus 
A g-a-m em'noa 
A-gric'o-la 
A-grip'pa= 
A'jax 
Al-a-ri'cus 
Al'a-ric, Eng, 
Al'ba SylM-us 
Al-bi'nus 
Al'bi-on 
Al-ca'nor 
Al-ci-bi'a-des 
A'lens 
Al-ex-an'der 

h 2 



AN 

Al-ex-an-dri'a 
A-Iex'is 
A-lo'a 
Al-phe'a 
Al-phe'us 
A V si-urn 
Al-thae'a 
A-ma'si-a 
A-ifea'sis 
A-ma'ta- 
A-maz'o-ne-3 
Am'a-zons, Eng. 
Am-a-zo'ni-a 
Am-bro'si-a 
Ain-bro-si'us 
A-mt'da 
A-mil'car 
Am'mon 
■Am-mo'ni-a 
Am-pbic'ty-on 
Am-phipo-lis. 
A-myn'tas 
A-my'ris 
■ A-myn/tor 
An-a-char'sis 
A-nac'xe-on, or 
A-na'cre-on 
A'nas 

An-ax-ag'o-ras 
An-chi'ses 
Aide's 
An-drom'a-che 



PRONUNCIATION Of 



AS 
An-ti-nop'o-lis 
An-ti-o'chi-a, or 
An-ti-o-chi'a 
An ! ti-och, Eng. 
An-ti'o-chus 
An-tip'a-ter 
An-to'ni-nus 
An-to'nMis 
A-pel'Ia 
A-pel'les 
A'pis 
A-pol'lo 
Ap-ol-lo'ni-a 
A-poth-e-o'sis 
Ap-o-the' 'o-sis- 
Ap'pi-i Fo'rum 
•l-qua'ri-us 
Ar-a'bi-a 
Ar'abs 
Ar-ca'di-a 
Ar-che-la'us 
Ar-cliip'pe 
Ar-chip'pus 
Arc-tu'rus 
A-rel'li-us 
Ar-e-op-a-gi'tae 
Ar-e-op'a-gus 
Ar-gi'va 
Ar-gi'vi 
Jlr'gives, Eng, 
Ar'gus 

Ar-is-tar'chus 
Ar-is-ti'des 
Ar-is-tip'pus 
Ar-is-to-bu'lus 
Ar-is-toph'a-nes 
Ar-is-tot'e-les 
Ar'is-to-tle, Eng, 
A'ri-us 
Ar-me'ni-a 
Ar-ta-xerx'es 
As'ca-lon 
A'si-a 



BY 

As-syr'i-a 

As-ty'a-nax 

AJte 

Ath-a-na'si-us 

Aih-e-naB'um 

At'las 

At'ti-ca 

At'ti-cus 

At'tMa 

Au-gus-ti'ims 

Au-gus'tin, Eng, 

Au-re'li-u* 

Au-ro y ra 

Au'spi-ces 



ww W^ V %. v* v ww 



B 

Bab-y-lo'ni-a 

Bac'chus 

Bac'tra 

Ba'vi-us 

Bel'gae 

Bel'gi-um 

Bel-i-sa'ri-iis 

Bel-ler'o-phon 

Bel-lo'na 

Be'ius 

Ber-c-ni ; ce 

Bes'ti-a 

Bi'as 

Bi'on 

Bi-tbyn'i-a 

Bce-o'ti-a 

Bo'lus 

Bo-o'tes 

Bo're-as 

Bos'pho-rus 

Bri-a're-us 

Bri-tan'ni-a 

Bru'tus 

By-zan'ti-um 

Byz'i-a 



CH 

a 

Cad'mus 

Cae-cil'i-a 

Cae'sar 

Caes-a-re'a 

Ca'i-us, and Ca-'i-a 

Ca'i-us 

CaFa-fs 

Cal-e-do'ni-a 

Ca-lig'u-la 

Cal-lis'te 

Cal-lis-te'i-a 

Cal-lis'the-n€s 

Cam-by' ses 

Cam'e-ra 

Ca-mil'Ia 

Ca'na 

Can'da-ce 

Can-u-le'i-us 

Ca-pit-o-li'nus 

Cap-pa-do'ci-a 

Cap-ri«cor'nus 

Ca-rac'ta-cus 

Car-tha'go 

Car'thage, Eng, 

Gas'ca 

Cas-san'der 

Cas'si-us 

Cas-ta'li-a 

Cas'tor and Pol'lux 

Cat-i-li'na 

Cat'i-line, Eng. 

Ca'to 

Ce'don 

Cel'a-don 

Cel'sus 

Cel'tae 

Ce'res 

Char-i-de'mus 

Cha'ron 

Cha-ryb'dis 

Chi-mae'ra 

Chi'oa 



GREEK AND LATIN PROPER NAMES, 367 



DO 

Cyn-o-su'ra 
Cyn f o-$ure, Eng, 
Cyn thi-a 
Cyp-ri-a'nus 
Cy-the'ra 
Cytb-e-?ae / a, or 
Cyth-e-re'a 



VV<VWWVV 



'..VWVVWV; 



CY 

Chi' 03 
Chlo'e 

Chry-sip-'pus 
Gbrys'os-tpjsi 

Cic'e-ro 

Ci-licka 

Cin-cm-na/tii^ 

Cir'ce 

Cis-al-pi'na Gal'U-a 

Clau'di-a 

Cle'on 

Cle-o-pa'tra 

Cli'o 

Clo'di-us 

Cne'us, or Cnse'us Dam'o-cles 

Col-Ia-ti'nus Da'mon 

Go-lo'nae Da-nu'bi-us 

Co-lo'ne Dcnvube, Eng\ 

Co-ios'sus Daph'ne 

Com'mo-dus Dapb'nis 

Co'inus Da-ri'us 

Con-fu'ci-us De-cem'vi-ri 

Con-stan'ti-a De'ci-us 

Con-stan-ti-nop'o-lisDe-id-a-mi'a 



D, 

Daed'a-las 

Dal-ma'ti-a 
Da-ma s'cus 



Ccn-stan-ti nus 

Gon'sian-tine, Eng. 

Con-stair ti-us 

Co-rin'na 

Co-ri-o-la nus 

Cor-ne'li-a 

Cor'si-ca 

Cor'y-don 

Cras'sus 

Cre'ta 

Crete, Eng. 

Crce'sus 

Cro-i'tes 

Cu-ri-a'ti-i 

Cu'ri-o 

Cur'ti-us 

Cy'a-ne 

Cy-clo'pes 

Cy'clops, Eng, 



De-iph'o-bus 

De'li-a 

Delphi 

Del'phus 

De-me'tri-us 

De-moc'ri-tus 

De'mon 

De-moph'i-lus 

De-mos'the-nes 

Deu-ca'li-on 

Di-a'na 

Di'do 

Di-o-cle-ti-a'nus 

Di-o-cle'ti-an, Eng, 

Di-o-do'rus 

Di-og'e-nes 

Di-o-nys'i-us 

Di-ot're-phes 

Do-mit-i-a'nus 



EU 

Do-mWi-an, Eng. 

Dor'i-ca 

Debris 

Dra'co 
Dru'i-dse 
Dm' ids. Eng, 
Dfu-sil'la 

Dry'a-des 
Dry 1 ads, Eng, 

X-V^'V VW%, ww w*w v**^< 



E-des'sa, E-de'sa 

El-e-phan tis 

El-e-phan-topb'a-gri 

El-eu-siir'i-a 

Ely-mus 

E-lys'i-urn 

En-dymi-on 

E-'nos 

E-pam-i-non'das 

E-paph-ro-di'tus 

Eph/e-sus 

Ep-ic-te'tus 

Ep-i-cu'rus 

E-piph'a-nes 

Ep-i-pba'ni-us 

Er'e-biis 

E-tru'ri-a 

E-vag'o-ras 

E-van'der 

Eu-cii'des 

Eu'clid, Eng, 

Eu-phra'tes 

Eu-rip'i-des 

Eu-ro'pa 

Eu-ro-pae'us 

Eu-ryd'i-ce 

Eu-se'bi-a 

Eu-se'bi-us 

Eu-tro'pi-a 

Eu-iro'pi-us 

Eu'ty-ches 



368 



PRONUNCIATION OF 



HE 
F. 

Fau'tii3 ' 

Fes'tus 

Fla/vi-a 

Fla'vi-us* 

Flo'ra 

Flo-ri-a'nus 

Fo'rnro Ap'pi- 

Ful'vi-a 



ID 

IIe-li-o-do ; ru3 

He-li-o-ga-ba'lxis 

Hel'len 

Hel-le-spon'tus 
He3-ve'ti-a 
Hcr-a-cK-'tus 
Rer-cu-la'ne-um 



Her'cu-Ies 
Her'mes 
He-rod'i-cus 
He-rod* o-tus 
' ^i'o-dus 
-pe'ri-a 
Iles'pe-rus- 
Hi-ber'ni-a, and 

Hy-ber'ni-a 
Hi-emp'sal 
Hi-e-rap'o-Iis 
Hip-poc'ra-tes 
Hip-pod'a-mus 
Ko-me'rus 
Hc'mer, Eng. 
Ho-ra'ti-us 
Hor' ace, 'Eng. 
IIor-ten*si-us 
Hos-til'i-us 
Hy'dra 
Gra-m'cus, or Hy-emp'sal- 

Gran 7 i-cus .Hy-o , e'i-a 

Gym-na'si-um Hy-gi'a-na 

Gym-nos-o-ptiis't?e Hy'men 
Jtm-nos'-p-jptos^EDgjjy.pe^/^ 



VVW VWV ^v'VW' V«\ WX/%i 

G. 

Ga-la 7 ti-a 

Gal'ba 

Ga-le'nus- 

Ga'len, Eng 

Gal'll-a 

Gaul, Eng. 

Gan'ges 

Gen'se-ric 

Ge-or'gi-ca 

Geor'gics, Eng. 

Ger-nia'ni-a 

Ger-man'i-cus 

Grse'ci 

GraVci-a 

Grse'cira Mag'ria 



II 

Han'ni-bal- 
He'be 
Hec'a-te, or 

Hec'aie, Eng. 
Hec'tor 
Hec'u-ba 
Hel'e-na 
Hel-i-ca'on 
Hel ; i-con 



%/WWWVX/WWVWVWM 

I. 

I-am'be 

Ja'nus 

Ja'son 

I-be'ri-a 

I-be'rus 

I-ca ; ri-a 

I-ca'ri-us 

Fda 



LA 
I-du'me, and 
Id-feme' a 
Je-ru'sa-lem 
Ig-na'ti-us 
IFi-on 

Jl'i-um, or Il'i-on 
Il-lyr'i-cum 
In'di-a 
In'das 
I-o'ni-a 

Fo-pe, and Jop'pa 
Jo-se'phtts Fla'vi-us 
Iphri-ge-ni'a 
I-re'ne 
Iro-nae'us 
Fris 

Ist'hmus 
I-ta'li-a 
hUi-ly, Eng. 
Ju'ba 
Ju-das'a 



Ju- 



'tha 



Ju'H-a 

Ju-li-a'nus 

Ju'li-an, Eng. 

Ju'li-us Css'sar I 

Ju'no 

Ju'pi-ter 

Ju-ve-na'lis 

Ju've-nal, Eng. 

vx/w vwv WW WW WW 

L. 

Laoe-das'mon 

Laoe-dsem'o-nes 

Lac-e-de-rno l ni-ans t - 

Eng. 
La'co 

Laotan'ti-us 
Lse'li-us 
La-er'ti-us Di-og'e* 

nes 
La-nu'vi-um 
La-oc'o-or; 



GREEK AND LATIN PROPER NAMES. 369 



LY 


MA 


MY 


La-od'i-ce 


Ly-ce'um 


Mau-ri-ta'ni-s 


La-od-i-ce'a 


Ly«cur'gus 


Me-cae'nas 


La'ti-um 


Lyd'i-a 


Me'di-a 


La 1 she-urn 


Ly-san'der 


Mel-e-a'ger 


Lav-i-a'na 


Ly-san'dra 


Me-li'sa 


La-vin'i-a 


Ly-sa'ni-as 


Me-Iis'sa 


Lau'ra 


Lys'i-as 


Me-Iis'sus 


Le'o 


Ly-siiri'a-chus 


Mel'i-ta 


Le-on'i-dns 


Ly-sip v pus 


Mel'i-tus 


Lep'i-dus 


Ly-sis'tra-tus 


Mel-pom' e-ne 


Les'bus, or Les'bos . 
Le''the 


"Mem'aon 

Mem' phis 


Leu-cip'pus 


Iff. 


Me-nah'der 


Leu-cop' o-lis 


Mac-e-do'ni-a 


Me-nec'les 


Lib'a-nus 


Mae-an'der 


Mer-cu'ri-us 


Li'ber 


Mae-ce'nas 


Mer'cu-ry, Eng. 


LiVe-ra 


Maen'a-lus 


Mes-o-po-ta'mi-; 


Li-hsr'tas- 


Mas-on'i-des 


Mes-sa-li'na 


Lib'y-a 


SLVvi-a 


Mes-se'ni-a 


Li-ci'nus 


Ma'gi 


Mi-cip'sa 


Lmi-a Dru-sil'la 


Ma'gi-us 


Mi' das 


Li'vi-us 


Mag'na Grae'ci-a 


Mi-le'si-ns 


Liv'y, Eng. 


hs.u gus 


Mi-le'ti-a 


Lon-gi'nus 


Ma-jor'ca 


Mi-le'tus 


Lu/ca 


Ma'nes 


Mi'Io 


a'nus 


Man<U-us Tor- 


Mil-ti'a-des 


Lu'can, Eng. 


qua' t us 


Mi-ner'va 


lu-ci-a'nus 


Mar'a-tfeon 


Mi'nos 


hu'cl-an, Eng 


Mar-cella 


Mi'thras 


Lu'ci-fer 


Mar-eel' las 


Mith-ra-da'tes 


Xu-cil'i-us 


Mar'ci-a 


Mit-y-le'ne, and 


Xu-cii'Ia 


Mar-ci-a'na 


Mit-y-le'nae 


Lu' ci -a 


J\lar-she-a J na 


Mna'soh 


LA'ci~us 


Mar'cus 


Mne-mos'y-ne 


Ln-cre'iba 


Ma-ri'a, or Ma'ri-a 


Mne-sim'a-chus 


Lu-cuFks- 


Ma-ri-a'nus 


Mo'mus 


Luna 


Ma-rfna 


Mon'.i-ma 


Lu-per'cal 


Ma'ro 


Mor'phe-us 


Lu-si-ta'ni-a 


Mars 


Mo'ses 


Lyb'y-a,or Ly-bis' 


'saMar'tha 


Mu'sae 


Ly-cae'a 


Mar-ti-a'lis 


MU-S3B'U3 


Ly-cae'urn 


Mar'ti-al, Eng. 


Mys'i-a 


Ly'ce 


L Mas-i-nis'sa 


Myt-i-le'ne 



370 PRONUNCIATION OF 

OT PH PO 

O-Vid'i-U: Pba'e-ton 

N. Ov'id, En&. Pbal'a-ris 

Nai'a-des Pba-le'rus 

Nar-cis'sus «vwvww<ww<wvwvw Phar-sa'li-a 

Ne^ p o rhid/i-as 

Nep-ia'nus Pad'u-a ?--- 

JSTep'tune, Eng. Pal-la'di-iim Phi!-a-del'pbi-a 

Ne-re'i-des Pal 'las Pbil-a-del'pbus 

JVe're-ictSt Eng. Pal-my'ra PbMeftas 

Ne'ro Pam'pbos Pbplip'pi 

Ner'vw Pam-phyFi-a Pki'lo 

Nes'tor p an ' Pbi-lol'6-gus 

Ni-ca'iior Pan-a-ce'a il-o-me'la 

Ni'ce Pan-do v ra Phleg'e-thon 

Nic-o-de'mus Pa-nor'mns Pbo'ci-oh 

Ni'niis Pan'tbe-on' Pboe'be 

Ni'o-be PaiVtbe-us, or Phce'bus 

No-va'tus Pan'tbus Phoe'nix 

Nox Pa'pi-as Pho-ti'n'us 

Nu'ma Pom-pil'i-us p ar /j s Pi-e'ri-a 

Nu'mi-da Par'ma Pi'e-tas 

Nu-mid'i-a Par-nas ; sus Pih'da-rus 

Nym'pbae Par'tbe-non Fm'dus 

Nymphs Eng. fat'mos 



Nym'phis Pa-tro'cles 

, ».\'\\ WW- WW WW WW 



I a-tro'clus 

p an /ln Fit'ta-cu 



Pi-sis''tra-tus 

Pit'ta-ci 

Pla-cid^ 



O. Pau-li'na 

O-ce'a-na Pau-li'nus Pla-cid'i-us 

O-ce'a-nus Pau'Ius iE-myVi-us PJa'to 

Oc-ta'vi-a Pe-li'des Plei'a-des 

Oota'vi-us Pel'la Plm'i-us 

O-dys'se-a Pel-o-pon-ne'sus Pltn'y, Eng. 

Od'vssey, Eng. Pe-nel'o-pe Plu-tar'chus 

O-lym'pi-a Pe'ne-us, or Te-m'usnv'iarcii, hng. 

O-Iyra'pi-as . Per'ga FJu'to 

04ym'pus Per'i-cles Pw'tus 

O-nes't-mus Per-i-pa-tet'i-ci PcI'Iux 

Or'i-o-en Fer / ^fa-^-ics,Eng.Pol-y-car / pus 

6-ri'on Per-i-to'ni-um Pol-y-do'rus 

Or'pbe-us Per'si-a Pom-pei'a 

O-si'Hs Per'ti-nax Pom-pei'i, or 

Q/fho PhaB'don Pom-pei'um 



GREEK AND LATIN PROPER NAMfiS. 371 



RO 
Pom-pil'i-us Nu'nia 
Pom-pil'i-a 
Pcin-pi'las 

Poii'ti-us 
Pon'tus 

Por'ci-a 
Prae'tor 
Prax i-as 
Pri'a-mus 

Pris-cil'la 

Pro-me'the-us 

Pro'te-us 

Pru-den'ti-us 

Psy'che 

Ptol-e-mse'us 

Ptol'e-rrty, Eng. 

Tol'e-j:e 

Ptol-e-ma'is 

Pub-lic'i-us 

PuD-lie'i-a 

Pub-iic'o-la 

Pub'K-us 

Pyg-ma'Ii-on 

Py-tbag'o-ras 

Pyth'i-as 

WW. VWVXXXV WW WXX 

Q. 

Qni-e'tus 
Quin-til-i-a'nus 
wuin-til'i-an, Eng. 
Quin'tus Cur'ti-us 

WW XXXV wxv WW vwx 



Re 'mus 

Rhad-a-rnan'thiis 

Rho'de 

Rho'di-a 

Rho'dns 

Rhodes, Eng. 

Ro'ma 



SE 
Rom n , Eng. pron. 

Room 
Ro-ma'ni 
Roni'ii-Ius 
Ros'ci-tis 
Rox-a'na 
Ru'bi-con 
ftu'fus 

VX XV WW VXXX WW WW 



Sa-gun'tum, or 

Sa-gira'tus 
SaFa-mis 
Sal-ltis'ti-us 
Sal'lust, Eng. 
Sa-lo'me 
Sa/mos 
Sa-mos'a-ta 
San-cho-ni'a-thon 
Sap'pho, or Sa'pho 
Sar'di 
Sar-din'i-a 
Sat-iHr-na'U-a 
Sa-tur'ni-a 
Scae'va 
Se'va 

Scan-di-na'vi-a 
Scap'u-la 
Scip'i-o 
Scyi'la 

Sem-pro-'ni-us 
jSe-na'tus 
Sen'na, or Se'na 
Sen'e-ca 
Sep-tim'i-us 
Se-ra'pis 
Se-re'na 
Se-re'nus 
Ser'gi-us 
Ser-vil'i-a 
Ser'vi-us Tul'li-us 
Se-sos'tris 



TE 
Se-ve'rns 

Si'dc 
SH-va'jQus 

i jn'i-des 
Sim-plic'i-us 
Smyrna 
Soc'ra-tes 
Sol'y-ma, and 

Sol'y-mae 
Sop'a-ter 
Soph'o-cl 
Soph-o-nis'ba 
So-phro'ni-a 
So-sip''a-ter 
Sorsis'tra-tos 
Spar'ta 
Spar'ta-ciis 
Sphinx 
Stepb'a-i 
Sto'i-ci 

Stvx *j ; 

Sui'das 
Syi'la 
Syl-va'aas 
Syl'vi-a 
Sy'phax 
Syr-a-cu'sas 
Syr* 'a-cuse. En. 2:. 



VXXX VXXX *. 



^' WXV XXXV 



T. 

Tac'i-tus 
Tar-^uin'i-us 

; hi, Eng. 
Tardus. 01 Tar'scs 
Tar'ta-rus 
Tau'ri 
Tau'ri-ea 
Tau'rus 
Te-Iem'a-chus 
Tem'pe 



Vi% PRONUNCIATION OF, 

TI VE ' ZO 

Teu'to-m, and Ti-tin'1-us Ves-pa-si-a'nus 

Teu'to-nes Ti'tus Fes-pa* si-an, Eng. 

Tha'is Tor-qua'tus Ves'ta 

ih&'la Tra-ja'nus * Ve-su'vi-us 

Tha'les Tra'jan, Eng. Ve-tu'ri-a 

Tha-li'a Trip-tol'e-miis Ve-tu'ri-us ' 

Tham'y-ris Tris-me-gis'tus Victor 

The'bae Tri'ton - Vioto'ri-a 

'Thebes, Eng. Tri-um'vi-ri Vioto'ri-us 

The-od-o-ri'tus Tro'as .' Vioto-ri'na 

The-o-do'rus Tro'ja Vic-to-ri'nus 

The-o-do'si-us Troy, Eng. Vir-gil'i-us 

Tbe'on Troph'i-m^ Vir'gil, Eng. 

rhe-oph'i-lus Try-pho'sa Vir-gin'i-a 

The-o-phras'tus Tul'li-us • Vir-gin'i-us 

The-o-phy-lac'tiis Tul'ly, Eng. Yi-tel'li-us 

The-oph'i-lact, Eng. Tus cu-lum Vi-tru'vi-us 

Ther-mop'y-lie Ty-bur , U-lys'ses 

The'ron Tych'i-cus Yo-lum'ni-a 

Tbes'jris Ty-ran'nus Vo-lum'nus 

Thes-sa'li-a Ty'rus, or Ty'ros Vo-ium'ni-us 

Thes'sa-ly, Eng. Tyre, Eng. U'ti-ca 

Thes-sa-lo-ni'ca Vul-ca'nus 

Thes'ty-lis Vul'can, Eng. 
Tho'rax v • 

Thra'ci-a Va'lens ^^ ^™ 

Thrace, Eng* Val-en-tin-i-a'nus X. 

.Thry'us Val-en4in l i-an, Eng.Xan-tip'pe 

Tha-cyd'i-des Va-le'ri-a Xan-tip'pus 

Ti-be'ri-us Ya-le-ri-a'nns Xen-o-do'rus 

Ti'bur Va-le'ri-an, Eng. Xen'ophon 

ri-ci'nus Ya-le'ri-us Xerx'es ' 

Vein. Eng. Yar'ro \ 

Tigris Ve-ne'ti-a 

Ti-mo'le-on Ven'ice., Eng. £t - 

Ti'mon Ven-tid'i-us Ze'no 

Ti-mo'the-us Ve'nus Zen-o-do'rus 

*Fi-re'si-as Ve-ro'na Zeph'y-rus 

Tit-i-a'nns Vc-ro'nes Zor-o-as'ter 

Ti'ti'an, Eng. . Ver'res Zos'i-ne 

"".,: FINIS. 



